She was right. He hated the idea.

But God, he loved hearing from her. He’d read the first letter so many times he had it memorized. Knowing he was going to have twelve of them, he’d ordered a museum-quality, pH-neutral box, handmade by a craftsman in Louisiana. Tiger maple exterior, lined in special cloth so the letters wouldn’t age.

He read the letter again. He could hear her voice, which had gotten raspier throughout her illness from intubations and coughing, but which he loved just the same. He could almost smell her skin . . . the faint floral scent of her shower gel, the citrusy perfume she loved, the hint of menthol from the Vicks VapoRub she swore helped her breathe.

He closed his eyes, summoning her. Be with me, he thought. He might not believe in God, but he did believe in Lauren. Come to me, honey. The sunshine on her dark red hair, illuminating a dozen different colors of brown, red, gold. Her pink lips and dark lashes. Eyes the color of whiskey. Her big laugh, bellowing out of her.

That laugh made her cough relentlessly in the last few months. How malicious, how evil, that laughter made her wince in pain.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes. He was still alone, but he had a little piece of her in his hands. Her words. Her sense of humor. Her love, shining from the letter.

He had been trying to do better, per her instructions. Shaved when he saw that he needed to. Set his phone to go off so he’d remember to shower.

For the past month, he’d taken Pebbles for long walks in Swan Point Cemetery or drove her to Colt State Park in Bristol, where the two of them would run and hopefully not see anyone he knew. He’d been better about throwing trash away. He tried not to nap for more than an hour. He set the alarm so he’d wake up in the morning and tried to remember to eat.

He was trying to show her he could do this.

It was as if, by doing what she said, he’d pass a test, and the reward would be Lauren, alive again. He knew the letters fed that idea. He’d catch himself thinking, When I talk to Lauren in April . . . Once, he thought, I can’t wait to tell Lauren about her letter.

Grief was a heavy, dark blanket, weighing him down, making the smallest things difficult. Before Lauren, he’d been a loner, sure, but it had been by choice. Now, it felt like the sun had fallen out of the sky, and the world was a wasteland of gray. He had to turn away from couples in the park or on the street. When his phone showed 183 texts, and his email inbox held 624 unread messages, he didn’t bother looking at them. None of them was from the one person he wanted.