Like if I opened it, Nora would somehow laugh from the doorway and tell us we were being dramatic.
With shaking fingers, I lifted the lid and GASPED.
Inside the box were three small bundles wrapped in faded purple ribbon.
For a second, none of us moved.
The ribbons were tied in Nora’s crooked little bows, the kind she used to make on birthday gifts because she refused to let Mom help. One bundle had Leila’s name written across the top. One had mine. The last had both our names.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Leila leaned closer, her eyes wide and wet.
“She really made these?” she breathed.
Mom nodded, pressing her fingers against her lips. “She worked on them for weeks. Some days, she was too tired to sit up, but she kept asking for paper, markers, photos, anything she could use.”
I touched the bundle with my name on it. The paper felt fragile beneath my fingers.
“Open yours first,” Leila said softly.
I looked at her. “Are you sure?”
She gave me a tiny nod, but her chin trembled.
I untied the ribbon.
Inside was a folded letter, a friendship bracelet made from blue and white thread, and a photograph of the three of us at the beach. Nora was in the middle, arms around our necks, grinning like she had personally invented summer.
I unfolded the letter carefully.
“Dear Gia,
If you are reading this, you are 21 now. That sounds very old, but Mom says 21 is still young, so do not act like you know everything.”
A broken laugh escaped me.
Leila wiped her cheeks with her sleeve.
I kept reading.
“I hope you still draw flowers on everything. I hope you still sing when you think no one is listening. You always stop when people walk in, but you should not. Your voice is soft and pretty, even when you make up half the words.”
My throat closed.
I had stopped singing after Nora died. I had not even noticed when it happened. Silence had settled over me so slowly that I mistook it for growing up.
The letter continued.
“Gia, you feel things very deeply. Sometimes you pretend you do not, but I know you. You hide when you are hurt because you think it makes you easier to love. Please do not do that forever. People who love you should know where it hurts.”
I pressed the letter to my chest.
“She knew me,” I whispered.
Mom’s face crumpled. “She loved you so much.”
