The letter began playfully, imagining our adult lives and teasing us exactly the way Nora always had.
Then the message became serious.
“Please don’t let me become the space between you.
I’m afraid that after I’m gone, you’ll only see what’s missing when you look at each other.
But you’re not the sisters who stayed behind.
You’re Gia and Leila.
You’re my favorite people.”
Tears blurred every word.
She asked us to keep celebrating birthdays.
To laugh.
To argue about silly things.
To live fully.
And then she gave us one final tradition.
“Every birthday, save me one slice of cake.
Then tell each other one good thing that happened that year.
Not the sad things.
The good things.
I want to know you lived.”
At the bottom of the letter was one last instruction.
**LOOK UNDER THE PAPER CROWN.**
Beneath it sat a small cassette tape.
Mom gasped.
“I completely forgot about this.”
We rushed to find an old cassette player.
The moment the tape began, static filled the room.
Then came a voice none of us had heard in ten years.
Nora.
Small.
Fragile.
Alive.
“Hi, Gia. Hi, Leila. Hi, Mom.”
Leila immediately grabbed my hand.
Nora laughed softly.
“If this recording works, I’m basically a genius.”
For several minutes, she spoke directly to us.
She told us she wasn’t angry.
She told us she loved being our sister.
Then she revealed a secret.
“I heard both of you crying when you thought I was asleep.
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