The address belonged to a small repair shop, and an elderly man named Gus stood in the doorway. When I held up the bear, his eyes filled with tears. He told me Owen had visited every week during treatment, because the shop was next to the hospital. Owen helped him sort screws and asked a hundred questions, and he left a box in Gus’s care, with a promise it would go to his mom when she was ready.

Gus brought out a small wooden box and I opened it with the brass key. Inside were drawings, a stack of folded notes, and a photograph of Owen laughing beside a golden puppy. Every note began with “Mom, don’t be sad,” and each one held a joke, a memory, or a small wish for me. Gus said the puppy was a stray Owen had fed by the shop door, and he had named him Buddy.

After Owen passed, Buddy vanished for weeks, then began sitting at the cemetery. Gus had seen him there, and understood. He had waited a year for a sign that I was ready, and Buddy had finally decided it for him. The dog leaned against my leg, and for the first time he let me touch him. I knelt in that shop and cried into his fur.

Buddy lives with me now, sleeping at the foot of Owen’s old bed. I read one note each Saturday, after we visit the grave together, and I have saved the last one for a day I need it most. Gus comes for dinner on Sundays and brings screws for the dog to sort, a joke we both understand. Owen is still teaching me not to be sad.