I sat there on the floor, clutching the note, tears falling faster than I could read. That little bottle — the one I’d dismissed — wasn’t the gift. It was a placeholder. A promise. A quiet testament that he’d been listening, planning, loving me in ways I hadn’t seen.
Now, that same bottle rests on my nightstand. I’ve never sprayed it. I won’t. Not out of guilt, but because it holds something sacred. His love. His intention. The last message he ever left for me, hidden in something I almost threw away.Continue reading…
