I found the gift bag beside a few modest groceries, my name written in her shaky handwriting. Inside lay the blue scarf she’d been finishing, the one she’d said she needed “a little help” to complete. Her note didn’t mention pain or fear, only gratitude and a hope that it would keep me warm like her hugs once did. That softness broke me more than any confession could have.

In that still house, surrounded by quiet evidence of a life spent giving, I understood how easily gentle people vanish behind their own politeness. She had never wanted to be a burden, even at the end. Now, every time I wrap that scarf around my neck, it feels like both comfort and warning. A reminder to answer the softest messages, to look past “I’m fine,” and to love the quiet ones loudly while there is still time.