My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

My incision healed into a pink line across my abdomen. My strength returned in cautious increments. I started sleeping through the night. I found a therapist named Dr. Larkin who specialized in family trauma and did not once tell me to forgive anyone for my own peace.

“Peace does not require access,” she said during our second session.

I wrote that down.

Gerald and I built routines.

Morning coffee on the porch.

Short walks to the corner and back.

Old movies on Friday nights.

He learned I hated peas, loved thunderstorms, and could not fold fitted sheets.

I learned he sang badly while washing dishes, read historical novels, and talked to his tomato plants like coworkers.

One afternoon, while sorting through the wooden box again, I found the receipt for the music box.

“Did you ever buy it?” I asked.

Gerald nodded.

“Still have it?”

He hesitated.

Then he disappeared into the hallway and returned with a small object wrapped in cloth.

The music box was made of dark wood, with a tiny painted holly branch on the lid.

He wound it.

A soft melody filled the room.

I did not recognize the song, but it felt like being remembered.

“I bought it the day before I got Ellie’s letter,” he said.

He placed it in my hands.