It’s been months now. I won’t pretend I’ve learned how to fix grief, because Thomas never claimed to have fixed it either — he’d spent forty years sitting inside other people’s grief without once promising he could end it. What he taught me instead was smaller, and somehow larger for being so small: that the greatest kindness we’re capable of isn’t finding the right words for someone else’s pain. It’s simply making sure they never have to carry it alone.
I still have the backpack. It sits by my own front door now, empty of envelopes, full of everything else.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
