“How come you’re not asking about the envelope?” she said. I froze. I had no idea what she meant. She explained that while checking the bedroom after I moved out, she found a white envelope taped underneath the bottom drawer of the old dresser. My name was written across the front. I told her I had never seen it before, and for a moment neither of us knew what to say.
She asked if she could bring it to me instead of opening it. That afternoon, we met outside my new apartment. The handwriting on the envelope belonged to her late husband, who had managed the building before he passed away two years earlier. Inside was a short note thanking me for helping him carry groceries upstairs, checking on him when he was sick, and never complaining when repairs took longer than expected. I had almost forgotten those little moments.
