The LAST LETTER
“THE LAST LETTER”
Every morning for sixty-two years, Daniel placed a single white rose on Lily’s windowsill.
It began the day after their wedding in 1963, when he found her sitting at that window, reading a book, sunlight catching the strands of her auburn hair. “You look like a dream,” he had said, and she laughed, that bright, tinkling laugh that made the world stop for a moment. He picked a rose from the garden and set it beside her. “Every day,” he said, “I’ll remind you.”
