A month later—a few days after they’d finally held a memorial for Charlie, Karen trying to be upbeat, but it was so, so hard—the UPS man dropped off a package at her door.

It was during the day. The kids were at school. Karen was getting ready to leave. She had a steering-committee meeting at the kids’ school. She was trying as best she could to get back to some kind of normal routine.

Rita, their housekeeper, brought it in, knocking on the bedroom door.

It was a large padded envelope. Karen checked out the sender. The label said it was from a Shipping Plus outlet in Brooklyn. No return name or address. Karen couldn’t think of anyone she knew in Brooklyn.

She went into the kitchen and took a package blade and opened the envelope. Whatever was inside was protected in bubble wrap, which Karen carefully slit open. Curious, she lifted out the contents.

It was a frame. Maybe ten by twelve inches. Chrome. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble.

Inside the frame was what appeared to be a page from some kind of notepad, charred, dirt marks on it, torn on the upper right edge. There were a bunch of random numbers scratched all over it, and a name.

Karen felt her breath stolen away.

The page read From the desk of Charles Friedman.

The writing on it was Charlie’s.

“Ees a gift?” asked Rita, picking up the wrappings.

Karen nodded, barely able to even speak. “Yes.”

She took it into the sunroom and sat with it on the window seat, rain coming down outside.

It was her husband’s notepad. The stationery Karen had given him herself a few years back. The sheet was torn. The numbers didn’t make sense to her and the name scrawled there was one Karen didn’t recognize. Megan Walsh. A corner of it was charred. It looked as if it had been on the ground for a long time.

But it was Charlie—his writing. Karen felt a tingling sensation all over.

There was a note taped to the frame. Karen pulled it off. It read: I found this, three days after what happened, in the main terminal of Grand Central. It must have floated there. I held on to it, because I didn’t know if it would hurt or help. I pray it helps.

It was unsigned.

Karen couldn’t believe it. On the news she’d heard there were thousands of papers blown all over the station after the explosion. They had settled everywhere. Like confetti after a parade.

Karen fixed intently on Charlie’s writing. It was just a bunch of meaningless numbers and a name she didn’t recognize, scribbled at odd angles. Dated 3/22, weeks before his death. A bunch of random messages, no doubt.

But it was from Charlie. His writing. It was a part of him the day he died.

They had never given her back the piece of his briefcase they’d recovered. This was all she had. Holding it to her, for a moment it was almost as if she felt him there.

Her eyes filled up with tears. “Oh, Charlie…”

In a way it was like he was saying good-bye.

I didn’t know if it would hurt or help, the sender had written.

Oh, yes, it helps. It more than helps…. Karen held it close. A thousand times more.

It was just a jumble of stupid numbers and a name scratched out in his hand. But it was all she had.

She hadn’t been able to cry at his memorial. Too many people. Charlie’s blown-up photo looming above them. And they all wanted it to be upbeat, not sad. She’d tried to be so strong.

But there, sitting by the window, her husband’s writing pressed against her heart, she felt it was okay. I’m here with you, Charlie, Karen thought. She finally let herself really cry.