For Nancy, her son Henry had always been her world. He was her joy, her reason for living. But 23 years ago, everything changed when a tragic accident took him from her. Since then, she had clung to a small but meaningful tradition: every year, on the anniversary of his death, she would bake Henry’s favorite apple-cinnamon pie and take it to his grave. It was her way of staying connected to him, of keeping his memory alive in the only way she knew how. That day was no different from the others.
Nancy arrived at the cemetery, carefully holding the warm pie in her hands. She placed it gently on the gravestone, her fingers tracing the familiar letters of Henry’s name. Silent words left her lips, words she had spoken every year—words of love, sorrow, and longing. Though so much time had passed, the grief was still sharp, always there, like an ache she had learned to live with.The next day, Nancy returned to the cemetery, expecting to find the pie where she had left it. But when she arrived, her heart sank.

The plate was empty, and in its place, there was a simple note: “Thank you.” Confusion and anger swirled inside her. Who had taken the pie? And why? The thought that someone had taken her son’s pie, a ritual she had held so dearly, was almost unbearable. Determined to find out who was behind it, Nancy baked another pie, a fresh one, and returned to the grave. This time, she was going to stay and watch.

Hours passed, the sun dipping lower in the sky as she hid behind a nearby tree, her eyes fixed on the grave. Finally, a young boy appeared, no older than nine. He hesitated for a moment before kneeling beside the grave. With trembling hands, he picked up the pie, then wrote something on a scrap of paper