By the time I reached the last line, the letter was shaking in my hands.
I pressed it to my chest and let the tears come. They were not silent, not hidden, but open and aching, like something had finally broken loose inside me. It was the kind of sobbing that doesn’t ask permission, the kind that rises from somewhere deep and unspoken.
I hadn’t cried like that since Daniel’s funeral.
Grace stood slowly, as if she could sense the shift in me. She climbed into my lap with such careful weight, like she knew how fragile I felt. She pressed her body close and rested her head against my shoulder, warm and grounding.
“You knew,” I whispered into her fur. “You knew, didn’t you?”
She looked up at me with those soft, knowing eyes, her tail giving a small thump against the floor. Her gaze didn’t waver. It didn’t need to.
“He gave you to us,” I said, running my hand down her back, slow and trembling. “Not directly, not loud. But Daniel sent you to us.”
The truth settled around me like a blanket: heavy, but warm. Daniel hadn’t left us alone. Not really. He had asked someone to watch over us. Someone who had lost everything, just like we had. Someone who knew what it meant to hold on with nothing but hope.
And Grace… Grace had answered that call.
In the months that followed Daniel’s passing, I had begged the universe for some kind of sign that he was still with us. I thought it would come in a dream or a whisper in the quiet.
I never imagined it would come on four legs, with eyes full of memory and a heart full of quiet loyalty.
“I miss him every day,” I told her softly. “But you make it hurt less.”
She pressed her nose to my cheek, and I closed my eyes.
Grief hadn’t disappeared. But something had shifted. I didn’t feel quite so hollow or alone. Daniel had loved us so deeply, he had made sure that even in death, we would still be held.
And somehow, Grace had carried that love straight to our door.
