For 23 years, Natasha—now 61—never missed this date. Every year, she baked her late son’s favorite pie and brought it to his grave. It was a simple yet comforting apple and cinnamon pie, the dessert Harry had loved since childhood. Baking it had been their tradition, a ritual they had once cherished together.

Since Harry’s tragic accident at 17, this yearly gesture had been Natasha’s way of keeping his memory alive. The grief never truly faded—it only softened, eased slightly by the familiar comfort of tradition. On this particular day, just like every year before, Natasha carefully carried the freshly baked pie to the cemetery. The familiar sadness welled inside her, but she quickly wiped her tears, managing a small, quiet smile as she said her goodbye.The next day, as part of her routine, Natasha returned to Harry’s grave to clean up. Usually, by the time she arrived, the pie was untouched or ruined by the weather—a silent reminder of her son’s absence. But today, as she approached, something felt different. Natasha’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the plate was empty—completely clean!

Then, something else caught her eye. A small, folded piece of paper rested on the plate. Her hands trembled as she reached for it. Slowly, she unfolded the note, her breath hitching as the words came into view…“I hope it’s okay that I took the pie. I didn’t mean any harm. I was hungry… but the taste reminded me of something I haven’t felt in years. Thank you, whoever you are.”

Natasha stared at the note, stunned. For a moment, she just stood there, the cemetery strangely still around her. Her first instinct was confusion. Then worry. Was someone living out here? Was it safe? But as she read the note again, something else crept in—a warmth. Someone hadn’t just taken the pie—they felt something from it.