Heather sifted through her mail, expecting bills. Instead, her fingers brushed burnt paper that reeked of sulphur. A postcard from Jace, her husband, who died three years ago today.
All the guys say hey! Trip hasn’t been great. It’s hot here. The plane ride was bumpy and not much fun. Hope yours is better tomorrow.
Love, Jace.
Her pulse stuttered. Clipped to the card was a charred plane ticket with her name on it. Tomorrow’s date. Same destination. Same flight that Jace never survived. As she stared, soot flaked off the ticket, forming one final message:
See you soon.
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