The letter arrived on a rainy Thursday, slipped quietly into the school's mailroom box. At first, I didn't think it was for me—no return address, only my name written in familiar, slanted handwriting I hadn't seen in months.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper and a small, worn charm—our shared symbol from the first time we went to the art festival. A tiny bronze crescent moon, chipped at the edge, threaded onto a red string.
The paper read:
*In-ha,*
*If you're reading this, then I probably kept my word and made sure this found you when you needed it most. I'm not great at goodbyes—never was. So I'm not going to write one.*
*This is a beginning. Even if I'm not there to see it.*
*You once asked me what I wanted to leave behind. I didn't have an answer then. I do now.*
*You.*
*You are the gift I leave behind, In-ha. The way you see the world, the way you carry love even when it hurts, the way you keep creating even through your silence—that's what I wanted to leave.*
*Promise me you won't spend your life trying to hold onto me. Paint, live, fall in love again. Let people in, even if it's scary. Be gentle with yourself, especially on the days when remembering me feels like too much.*
*You once told me I was the reason you believed in color. But it was always in you. I just reminded you.*
*Now go remind the world.*
*Always with you,*
*Yuna.*
I didn't cry immediately.
I sat on the steps of the school building, rain soaking my shoes, the charm pressed tightly in my hand. For the first time in a long while, the grief didn't burn. It warmed.
Her gift wasn't in the letter.
It was in the love she left behind in me.
A love that no longer broke me—
—but built me.
—