A Ticket to Moving On

At the thrift store, Henry found an old coat that felt strangely familiar. Inside the pocket

was a bus ticket dated the same day his wife had died five years earlier. His breath caught.

He remembered wearing a coat like this, one she’d bought him, on the day he almost

didn’t make it home in time to say goodbye. Attached to the ticket was a note, frayed with age:

"If this ever returns to you, it means you’re ready to live again. Please do.”

He sank onto a bench, coat in his lap, memories flooding in: her laugh, her warmth,

the way she told him to keep choosing joy even after she was gone. Henry stood and

walked to the bus stop outside. He bought a ticket to nowhere in particular, just forward.