For Nancy, her son Henry was everything. She could never imagine a life without him. It had been 23 years since the tragic accident that claimed his life, but not a year had gone by without her honoring his memory. Every year on the anniversary of his passing, she brought his favorite apple and cinnamon pie to his grave—a ritual she had maintained with unwavering devotion. This year, however, something unexpected was about to happen.

Nancy, now 61, had never missed a single year. The simple yet delicious pie had been Henry’s favorite since he was a little boy. The scent of apples and cinnamon always transported her back to the days when Henry would run into the kitchen, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the freshly baked dessert. Those moments had become precious memories, and baking the pie was her way of keeping them alive.Since Henry’s passing at 17, the ritual had given her a small sense of connection, a way to feel like she was still doing something special for him. The pain of losing him had never fully faded, but this yearly tradition had softened the ache in her heart.

On this particular anniversary, just like every year before, Nancy carefully carried the pie to Henry’s grave. The weight of the dish felt heavier with each step, as it always did when she approached his resting place. The grave was adorned with fresh flowers, a testament to how much he was still loved.Kneeling at the gravestone, Nancy gently placed the pie down. “Henry,” she whispered, her voice tender with emotion, “I brought your favorite again.

I miss you every day.” Tears welled up in her eyes, but she managed a soft smile, recalling the days when he would sneak a bite before the pie was done. “I wish we could share it again, just once more.”After a few moments of quiet reflection, Nancy kissed her fingers and touched the top of the gravestone, saying her quiet goodbye.

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