They drove through the drizzle to Mia’s childhood street, where the porch still smelled like rain and lilacs. In the attic they found it, a cedar chest tucked behind a quilt frame. The key turned with a soft click, the lid sighed open, and a bundle of letters tied with blue thread waited like sleeping birds.

The letters told a story no one knew. Years ago, Mia was a fragile newborn who needed blood, and an anonymous nurse stayed late, donated, and wrote a prayer on a card. A photograph slid from the bundle, and their breath broke, because the nurse in the picture was Evan’s mother, younger, smiling, holding a tiny Mia. Their lives had crossed long before their vows, and the grandmother hid the key so love could reveal it when they were ready.