My husband, 42, passed away unexpectedly a month ago. Yesterday, his phone buzzed with a notification: a hotel charge made just minutes earlier. My stomach dropped. His accounts were supposed to be frozen. How was this possible? Hands trembling, I grabbed my keys and drove straight to the address on the receipt. Halfway there, his phone rang. The caller ID read: Mike – Work. I answered, my voice caught in my throat.
But the voice wasn’t Mike’s. “Hey man, I got the room like you asked. You sure you want to do this today? It’s been a month… she might not be ready.” I couldn’t speak. My heart hammered. The voice continued: “Alright, just text me if plans change. I’ll be at the coffee shop next door. Hope she likes the surprise.” Confusion and fear tangled together. What was going on?
At the hotel, I rushed to Room 214. My hand hovered over the door before I finally knocked. It opened slowly—and standing there was Daniel, my husband’s younger brother. His eyes were red, his expression nervous but gentle. Inside, the room glowed with candlelight. Framed photos of me and my husband filled the walls. On the nightstand sat a small velvet box.
Daniel’s voice was quiet, almost breaking: “He planned this before he passed. Told me if anything ever happened, I had to make sure you got one last message.” He handed me the box. Inside was a delicate necklace, engraved on the back with the words: “You were my always. And still are.” Tears blurred my vision as I clutched it to my chest. Even in death, he had found a way to reach me—to remind me that love doesn’t end, and I was never truly alone.