The last letter stopped me cold.
“You were my peace at the end,” he wrote.
Beneath the letters was a small key and a folded note. He explained that he had hidden some cash and a few personal belongings—things he wanted only me to have.
Not because I deserved compensation, but because he didn’t want anyone to ever say I helped him for the wrong reasons.
“I didn’t earn your kindness,” the note read. “But you gave it anyway. I needed you to know I saw that.”
I sat on the floor with the box in my lap and felt something unexpected settle over me.
Relief. Not joy. Not closure.
Just a quiet easing—like a wound that finally stopped demanding an explanation.
I hadn’t changed the past. But I had changed the ending.
And somehow, that was enough.
