I’d pictured our 10th anniversary perfectly—candlelight flickering, laughter filling the room, and gifts that captured everything we’d built together. I had spent months saving for the watch my husband had been dreaming of, imagining his eyes lighting up the moment he opened it. When he handed me my gift in return, it was a small plastic bottle of perfume—cheap-looking, like something grabbed on impulse at a gas station. I forced a smile, hiding the disappointment that pricked my heart.
It wasn’t about the price. It was about what I thought it represented—or rather, what it lacked. That night, after he fell asleep, I tucked it away in a drawer, telling myself I’d never wear it. I didn’t know then that this tiny bottle held a secret, a piece of him I would treasure forever.
Three weeks later, everything changed. One phone call, and he was gone. No warning, no chance to say goodbye—just emptiness. The house felt hollow. His mug still sat on the counter, his jacket hung by the door, and in that drawer lay the perfume, untouched, mocking me with its simplicity. Each time I looked at it, regret cut sharper than grief.
Months passed before I could bring myself to sort through his things. One afternoon, my hands shaking, I picked up the perfume again. I nearly set it down, but it slipped. The cap popped open, and inside was a folded note, written in his familiar handwriting.
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