Monday mornings were always the hardest for Claire. The silence of her empty house pressed down heavier than usual. Her husband, Mark, had passed away two years earlier, and though she tried to fill the days with work, the ache lingered.

One morning, while cleaning out the attic, Claire found an old shoebox tucked behind dusty holiday decorations. Inside was a stack of envelopes, all addressed to her in Mark’s handwriting. Her hands trembled as she opened the first one.

Each letter was dated for a future year—“Open on our 10th anniversary,” “Open when our daughter turns 16,” “Open when you feel alone.” Mark had written them during his illness, knowing he might not be there to comfort her.

Claire sobbed, clutching his words as if they were his arms. In one letter, he urged her not just to survive but to live. “When you read this,” he wrote, “promise me you’ll find laughter again.”

The last letter carried no date. Just four words: When you’re ready, love.

Weeks later, while volunteering at a community event, Claire met a widower named Daniel. They spoke first about grief, then about music, then about life beyond loss. As she laughed for the first time in years, Claire felt Mark’s words stir inside her. Maybe she was ready.