That autumn, Gordon painted the blue shutters himself. He did a terrible job, leaving streaks across the wood, but he also placed the dish of peppermints beside the front door exactly where Winifred had always kept it. He never tried to pretend the past hadn’t happened. Instead, he began asking questions about her—small things he should have known already. What she ate when she was sick. Which songs she liked. Whether she really cheated at cards. I answered whenever I could.

Winifred left me one final thing: a worn deck of cards with one corner folded over the queen of hearts. I keep it in my kitchen drawer. On stormy nights, I take it out, shuffle once, and cheat a little, just to remember how she used to laugh when she got caught. She hadn’t left me money or anything valuable enough to list in a will. She left me proof that she had known me for years. And I finally understood that being truly known by someone can be a kind of wealth no one can audit, divide, or take away.