That night, she sat at her kitchen table, the toy between her palms. Fear and gratitude tangled together in her chest. Someone out there still remembered her son. Someone cared enough to come back, after three years of silence. She couldn’t decide whether to weep or be afraid.
She poured herself tea and let it go cold. The gift didn’t feel like a random act of sympathy; Was it a message? Was it fueled by kindness or obsession? She couldn’t tell. Maybe grief drew strangers the way light drew moths, toward warmth that wasn’t theirs to claim.