Inside the pillow, hidden among the worn stuffing, I found a small, polished wooden box with a brass latch that opened easily. Inside lay yellowed letters tied with a faded red ribbon—love notes Héctor and I exchanged long before marriage, when every word felt like forever.
Tears blurred my vision as I read our youthful dreams of travel, of building a life together. Beneath the letters was a velvet pouch holding the sapphire necklace he’d given me on our first anniversary, thought lost years ago.
Why had Héctor hidden these mementos, joking about them on our last day as husband and wife? Perhaps they were his quiet way of holding on, proof that he, too, remembered when love was simple.
Sitting there, I felt my anger fade. I returned the letters and necklace to the box and set it aside. That night, resting on the now-empty pillow, I felt peace. The past was no longer a weight—just a memory I could finally release.
