My breath caught in my throat. As Maya spoke, memories of Lily’s generous spirit flooded back to me. Lily had always been the kind of person who noticed the people in the shadows, the ones who were hurting or alone. During those final weeks, I remembered Lily often asking me to buy extra books, sketchpads, and small trinkets, claiming she wanted to pass the time. I had no idea she was giving them to a scared child down the hall. 
“She read stories to me,” Maya continued, a soft smile breaking through her tears. “She taught me how to draw, she held my hand when the treatments hurt, and she told me that no matter what happened, I had to keep fighting and grow up to be strong. She used to tell me about you, too. She talked about your strength, your kindness, and how much you loved her. She called you her anchor.”
Maya carefully lifted the lid of the wooden box she held. Inside were dozens of folded notes, colorful drawings, and a small, worn photograph of Lily laughing in our garden…
