The carpenter spent three hours alone in my seven-year-old daughter’s bedroom.
The next morning, I lifted her mattress and found my dead husband’s missing wedding ring.
For several long seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
The silver band rested in my trembling palm, wrapped carefully in a piece of pale linen that smelled faintly of dust, sawdust, and old wood. Morning sunlight slipped through Lily’s pink curtains and caught the engraving inside the ring.
Daniel and Amelia.
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