A man stood at my doorstep, smiling into the camera. “Enjoy your surprise, Mrs. Thompson,” he said warmly. “Can’t wait for you to see what’s inside.”
My stomach fluttered with confusion. I wasn’t married. And my name definitely wasn’t Mrs. Thompson. Still, curiosity followed me all the way home. There it was — a small, unmarked box resting on my doorstep, just as he’d said. I hesitated before bringing it inside. Inside the plain wrapping was a neatly folded letter and a small wooden box, its lid smooth and aged. The letter was written in elegant cursive, the kind that looked straight out of another time. When I opened the box, I froze. Inside was a vintage locket and an old photograph of a smiling woman holding a little girl — a girl who looked exactly like me when I was small.
