Greg lay beneath the lights, still and quiet, wearing the navy suit I bought him for our last anniversary. His hair had been combed the way he did before weddings. His face looked calm, almost peaceful, which somehow made everything worse. Greg was never still in life. He always had motion in him. Fixing something around the house. Tapping his fingers while thinking. Clearing his throat before speaking, like he was preparing to say something important even if it was only about the grocery list.
That stillness did not belong to him.
I told myself I needed one last moment. One final act that felt like mine alone. A small goodbye I could control.
When the line of visitors thinned, I stepped forward with a rose in my hand. I leaned over the open casket, planning to place it between his folded hands.
That is when I noticed something unusual.
Tucked beneath his fingers was a pale rectangle of paper, hidden carefully as if someone had placed it there with intention. At first I assumed it was a card from the funeral home, something about the service or a private note of condolence.
But as I leaned closer, my stomach went cold.
It was folded like a message. A note.
My heart began to pound. Who would slip a note into my husband’s hands and not tell me? Why would it be hidden? I stood there for a long moment, frozen between fear and disbelief.
Then I told myself the one thing I needed in order to move.
Read more by clicking the (NEXT »») button below!
