Nancy’s life had revolved around her son Henry. Even now, 23 years after a tragic accident stole him away at just 17, she continued a tradition that had once brought them both joy. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she faithfully brought his favorite apple and cinnamon pie to his grave—a tangible link to the past, a quiet reminder of the laughter and love they had shared. It was a ritual that never wavered, despite the passing decades. But this year would be different in a way Nancy never could have foreseen.
At 61, Nancy had never failed to deliver Henry’s beloved pie. The aroma of apples and cinnamon always summoned images of his childhood grin, the way he’d peek around the kitchen doorway, too impatient to wait for the pie to cool. Those memories were now treasures locked inside her heart, and baking the dessert each year offered a small sense of comfort, a feeling that she was still caring for him somehow.
Since Henry’s passing, this yearly gesture had become Nancy’s balm—a tradition that slightly eased the persistent ache of loss. On this year’s anniversary, she approached his grave as she always did, pie balanced carefully in her trembling hands. Fresh flowers adorned the headstone, proof that others still remembered. Kneeling down, Nancy placed the pie at Henry’s resting place. “I brought your favorite again,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I miss you every day, my boy.”
She lingered there, tears glistening in her eyes, recalling the sweet mischief of Henry’s youth and the gentle warmth of his presence. Then, as always, she said her goodbye and rose to leave, knowing she would return the following day to clear away whatever remained.
But this time, fate had something unexpected in store.
When Nancy came back the next morning, her heart skipped a beat. The plate on Henry’s grave was empty. Not once in 23 years had the pie vanished. Usually, it sat untouched until she removed it, a silent reminder that he was truly gone. Yet now it was gone—and in its place lay a small, folded note.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up, carefully unfolding the shaky handwriting inside. The message was short: “Thank you.”
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