For Nancy, her son Henry had been everything. She couldn’t imagine life without him. It had been 23 years since the tragic accident that took his life. Every year on the anniversary, she baked his favorite apple and cinnamon pie and took it to his grave to honor his memory. This tradition had kept Henry close to her heart. The scent of apples and cinnamon brought back memories of when Henry was a boy, eagerly running into the kitchen at the sight of his favorite dessert. The ritual had been her way of maintaining a bond with him,
even after his death. That year, as Nancy walked to Henry’s grave with the freshly baked pie, her heart was heavy, as it always was. The grave, adorned with flowers, showed how much he was still loved. She knelt and whispered her annual message to him, her voice thick with emotion, “I hope you’re at peace, my love. I miss you every day.” When she returned the next day to clean up the pie, she was stunned to find the plate empty, with a note resting on it. The simple words, “Thank you,” were written shakily on a piece of paper. Confused and angry,
