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.”

That evening, Gerald and I went back to his house.

Snow had started falling again, just as it had the previous Christmas. Soft, deliberate flakes drifting through the porch light.

Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon, coffee, and Ruth’s aggressively buttered cooking.

But before dinner, I asked Gerald to come outside.

We stood on the porch beneath the wind chimes.

The same porch where I had told my mother I was home.

The same porch where she had tried one last time to convince me I was impossible to love.

The air was cold enough to sting.

Gerald tucked his hands into his coat pockets.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

“I think so.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

“I’m learning honesty from you. It comes with uncertainty.”

He smiled.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the music box.

Gerald blinked.

“You brought it?”

“I thought it belonged here tonight.”

I wound it carefully.

The melody began.

Soft.

Old.

Patient.

For a while, we listened without speaking.

Then I said, “When I was little, I used to imagine being found.”

Gerald looked at me.