There were children's drawings on the walls.
A pair of little boots beside William's enormous leather ones.
Fresh curtains I had sewn from pale blue cotton.
Shelves of books.
A new pantry.
And a small bedroom overlooking the creek, where Annie slept beneath a quilt I had made during her first winter with us.
She was ten years old now.
Her dark hair had grown long and healthy. Her cheeks were rounder, and the frightened expression she once carried had gradually been replaced by the stubborn confidence of a child who finally believed someone would listen when she spoke.
She loved horses.
She loved books.
She loved sitting beside William while he repaired tools.
And she loved helping me prepare meals, although she had developed an unfortunate habit of tasting the dumplings before they were finished.
William claimed she inherited that from him.
I told him there was no doubt.
Our life wasn't perfect.
Some winters were difficult. Some harvests failed. Sometimes the old memories returned unexpectedly, especially for Annie, whose early childhood had been shaped by fear and uncertainty.
But she was learning that home meant something more than a place to sleep.
Home meant being able to ask questions without being punished.
It meant having enough food.
It meant knowing that the adults around her could disagree without frightening her.
And most importantly, it meant understanding that love was not something she could lose simply by making a mistake.
I believed we had finally reached the peaceful ending our story deserved.
Then the letter appeared.
It happened while William was repairing the stove's chimney enclosure.
A small section of stonework had loosened during the winter, allowing cold air to seep into the kitchen. William decided to remove the damaged boards and replace the old mortar before the next snowfall.
I was preparing bread when he pulled away a narrow piece of timber.
Something slipped out.
A folded envelope.
Yellowed.
Dust-covered.
Sealed with dark red wax.
William caught it before it reached the floor.
He stared at it for several seconds.
Then looked toward me.
"Rose."
I turned from the dough.
"What is it?"
He held up the envelope.
"There's something here."
I wiped my hands on my apron and approached.
The paper was old, but the writing remained visible.
Across the front were four words.
For the woman who comes after.
I felt a strange chill.
"What does that mean?"
William slowly shook his head.
"I don't know."