My vision blurred.
Rosie was my sister.
I was her sister.
She got nine days.
I got more.
I don’t know why.
I don’t have to know why.
I just have to use mine.
I love you.
Hannah.
I lowered the letter.
Nobody spoke.
Then Sophie sneezed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Daniel and I froze.
Hannah looked between us.
“What?”
I started laughing.
So did Daniel.
“What?”
Hannah demanded.
Daniel wiped his eyes.
“Rosie sneezed like that.”
Hannah stared at Sophie.
Three tiny sneezes.
Then her face changed.
Not grief.
Wonder.
She kissed her daughter’s forehead.
“Hi, Aunt Rosie.”
I cried harder.
Around us, life continued.
Someone cut the cake.
My brother burned another hamburger.
Sophie needed changing.
No music swelled.
No miracle happened.
A baby who died twenty-three years earlier did not return through another child.
That’s not how life works.
Rosie remained Rosie.
Sophie remained Sophie.
Hannah remained the daughter who survived.
And I finally became a mother who could love both daughters without believing one love accused the other.
That evening, after everyone left, I found Daniel in the garage.
The wooden chest sat on his workbench.
“You started this the night she died?”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you ever show me?”
