Jo kept a drawer for gifts she never gave.
Not wrapped things—just small items picked up when something or someone reminded her of someone else. A ceramic fox. A peppermint-scented pen. A silver bookmark shaped like a feather. All of it meant for someone she missed, or someone who changed, or someone she hadn’t heard from in too long.
She never meant to keep them. She just… didn’t send them in time.
Today she opened the drawer looking for a receipt. The ceramic fox stared up at her with polite patience.
She sat on the floor and took out every item, one by one. Remembering who they were for. Remembering why.
Then she got up and took the fox next door.
Her new neighbor had a quiet way about her. She liked herbal tea and wore forest-green sweaters. She seemed like someone who’d understand the kind of gift that didn’t need a reason.
And maybe, Jo thought, that was reason enough.