I never expected to grow old alone.

After my husband passed, the silence in our house became unbearable. No kids, no family—just me, left to fend for myself. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant sound of laughter outside reminded me of what I had lost.

Then, out of nowhere, something strange happened.

A courier showed up one morning, struggling under the weight of several large boxes. “Delivery for you, ma’am,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“For me?” I frowned. “I didn’t order anything.”

“The sender wishes to remain anonymous,” he replied with a shrug.

Curious, I brought the boxes inside and opened them.

Inside were things I *needed*—new clothes, warm blankets, fresh food, cleaning supplies. It was as if someone had been watching, noticing what I lacked. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, though I couldn’t fathom who would do this for me.

And then, the boxes kept coming.

Day after day, packages arrived at my doorstep. A new kettle when mine broke. A cozy robe just as winter set in. Medicine for my aching joints. Whoever this was, they *knew* me, cared for me in a way I hadn’t been cared for in a long time.

I stopped asking the courier who sent them. Maybe it was a kind stranger. Maybe it was someone from my past, repaying a forgotten kindness.

Then, one day, the final package arrived.

Unlike the others, this one was small, no bigger than my palm. My heart pounded as I opened it, hands trembling.

Inside was a single key.

And a note.

*”It’s time to come home.”*

Tears blurred my vision as I turned the key over in my hands.

It wasn’t just a gift. It was an invitation.

But from *who*? And *where* was home?

I knew one thing for certain—whoever had been watching over me all this time… they were waiting.