When I was nine, my world split in two. One day my mum was there, brushing my hair before school, humming softly, and the next she was gone. In the confusion that followed, relatives tried to comfort me with words I couldn’t understand, but the only thing that truly felt like hers was a small ballerina snow globe she’d given me not long before she passed. The dancer stood frozen mid-spin, surrounded by untouched glitter, and I decided—without ever saying it out loud—that I would never shake it. It stayed on a shelf through childhood bedrooms, college apartments, and my first home. For more than twenty years, it remained exactly as it was, like disturbing it might undo the last piece of her I still had.

Last month, my daughter noticed it while we were cleaning. Before I could stop her, she shook it, laughing as the glitter swirled—until we both heard a faint rattle. That sound had never been there. My heart raced as I unscrewed the base, hands trembling, half-afraid and half-hopeful. Inside was a folded piece of yellowed paper, tucked away all those years. It was a note, written in my mum’s familiar handwriting. She told me she loved me, that she was proud of me already, and that no matter where life took me, I would never be alone. She ended it by saying that one day, when I had a child of my own, I’d understand how endless that love truly is. I cried harder than I had in decades—but this time, it wasn’t just grief. It was comfort. Somehow, across time, she had found a way to speak to me again.