The note was written in careful, unfamiliar handwriting, and my hands shook as I read it. It said: I have kept every rock your daughter left. Please come to locker 14 at the train station. The key opens it. I promise this brings only good news, not more grief. There was no name. My first instinct was fear. Someone had been taking Lily’s rocks, watching us, and now they were asking me to follow a key to a train station locker. I almost went straight to the police. But something in the gentleness of the words, and the promise about good news, made me pause. I looked down at Lily, clutching her single remaining rock, and I made a decision I could not fully explain.

I found a sitter for Lily the next morning and drove to the station alone, the brass key warm in my closed fist the entire way. Locker 14 sat in a quiet row against the far wall. My heart pounded as I slid the key in and turned it. Inside was a wooden box, beautifully made, and when I lifted the lid, my breath caught. There they were. Every single painted rock Lily had ever left on her father’s grave, cleaned, arranged in careful rows, not one missing. And tucked among them was a thick envelope with my name on it, in that same careful hand, along with a photograph I had never seen before.