On the first warm Saturday of spring, Laura Bennett climbed into the attic with a broom and a box of garbage bags. Dust floated in the sunlight as she sorted through forgotten things.
Behind a stack of suitcases she found a small wooden box. Taped to the lid was a yellowing note in careful handwriting.
Wait until Spring.
Laura smiled faintly. It was her father’s writing. He had died the previous autumn.
“Well,” she murmured, “it’s spring.”
The tape peeled away easily. Inside lay a tiny envelope and an old brass key.
She unfolded the note.
Laura, if you’re reading this, you waited like I hoped. Grief feels endless in winter. Everything does. But people need spring to see clearly again.
Her throat tightened.
Use the key. You’ll know where.
Laura stared at it, confused, until memory stirred. The old oak in the backyard. When she was little, her father had nailed a birdhouse high on the trunk.
Minutes later she stood beneath the tree, heart racing. The key fit the tiny lock.
Inside the birdhouse sat a small ring box.
Her father’s final note rested beneath it.
Life keeps going. You should too.
Laura laughed softly through tears.
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