In her final days, I refused to leave her bedside. Every breath she took felt precious, and every moment reminded me how cruelly short our time together had become.
Then, one quiet night, she opened her tired eyes and whispered, “Mom, there’s something I need you to do for me.”
“Anything, sweetheart,” I answered, fighting back tears.
She pointed toward the drawer beside her bed. Inside lay a small wooden box wrapped in an old scarf, with an address hidden beneath it.
“After I’m gone, please take this to him,” she whispered.
“Who is he, Emma? How do you know him?”
She turned her face away. “Please, Mom. Just promise me you’ll deliver it. And don’t open it.”
My heart filled with questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to burden her with them. I kissed her forehead and promised.
The next morning, my world fell apart. Emma was gone.
