I shuffled to the front door in my worn slippers, my phone still trembling in my hand. My daughter had just called, her voice heavy with tears, leaving me worried that something was terribly wrong. When I opened the door, the morning sunlight stretched across the porch, and I froze. Resting against the railing was the photo album I had given my grandson Ethan the day before. Beside it sat a small wooden box and a folded note held in place by a smooth river stone.

Inside, I carefully unfolded the letter. Ethan apologized for not saying much when I gave him the album, admitting he had looked through every page twice and cried while reading the handwritten memories I had tucked inside. Then he wrote that he had made something for me. My heart raced as I slowly opened the little wooden box, wondering what could possibly be inside…