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That’s why her request never made sense to me.
A few weeks before she died, when the hospice bed had replaced her old floral couch and the house smelled faintly of antiseptic and chamomile tea, she took my hand and said, very clearly, “Promise me you’ll move the rosebush. Not right away. One year after I’m gone.”
I laughed then, trying to keep my voice light. “You’re giving me gardening assignments from beyond the grave now?”
She smiled, that knowing little smile that always made me feel like she was ten steps ahead of everyone else. “Just promise.”
So I did.
The year after her death passed in a blur of paperwork, grief, and the strange quiet that settles into a house when the person who anchored it is suddenly gone. I inherited the house—small, creaky, and full of her things. I kept the rosebush exactly where it was, blooming stubbornly every spring beside the back fence. Deep red roses. Her favorite.
When the anniversary came around, I almost forgot the promise. It wasn’t until I was standing in the kitchen, staring out the window with a mug of coffee gone cold, that I remembered her words.
One year after I’m gone.
I sighed, grabbed a shovel, and went outside.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t nervous. Grief does that to you—it turns simple tasks into emotional minefields. As I knelt by the rosebush, I apologized out loud like an idiot. To the plant. To her. To myself.
“I hope you don’t sulk,” I muttered, echoing her words.
The soil was packed tight, darker than I expected, and the roots were thick and stubborn. Halfway through digging, my shovel hit something solid. Not rock. Not root.
Metal.
My heart did a strange, hollow thump.
I dug faster, hands shaking now, until the corner of a small tin box emerged from the dirt, rusted but intact. For a long moment, I just stared at it, my breath loud in my ears.
This was not part of the plan.
I carried the box inside like it might disappear if I wasn’t careful. At the kitchen table—the same one where she taught me to roll pie crust and scolded me for using too much flour—I pried it open.
Inside were letters.
Dozens of them. Carefully folded, bundled with twine, the paper yellowed but protected. On top sat a small velvet pouch and a single envelope with my name written in her looping, familiar handwriting.
I didn’t open the letters right away. I went straight for the envelope.
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