I paid for it immediately — she refused to charge me after hearing my story. I carried the dress home, my heart pounding, my thoughts racing. It felt surreal — like holding a ghost from my past.

That night, I laid it across my bed. The fabric was slightly yellowed with age, but it was unmistakably hers. I ran my fingers along the inner lining — and that’s when I found it.

A small envelope, stitched carefully into the hem.

It was brittle, faded, but still sealed. My name was written on it in my mother’s handwriting: *For Lily.*

My heart nearly stopped. I sat there for a long moment before carefully opening it. Inside was a single sheet of paper.

My dearest Lily,