My trembling hand reaches into the dark wool pocket of my cardigan, feeling for the cold stone. I pull it out and slip it into her cupped hands, holding hers between mine.
In that moment, I remember last summer. Her warm hands, cupping mine as we sat burying our feet in the sand, the light seeping through our skin. She was a living Barbie, her golden body shimmering and tousled hair cascading down her shoulders. I wondered how someone could be so flawless. She handed me a flat stone, painted sky blue on the top, iced with a skinny magenta heart. Telling me to leave it where ever I wanted, she pulled out a large bag stuffed with rocks of all sizes, looking like stacked Easter eggs.
So, through the harbor we went, placing them on tables of outdoor restaurants, stuffing them in shelves of boutiques, and balancing them on every fire hydrant we passed. By sunset, we had painted the town in treasures.
At nightfall, we walked back to the car, noticing motorcycles parked beside us. I pulled the last stone from my back pocket and set it on the seat. She smiled at me in approval, then we sat in the car watching. Moments later, a middle-aged woman in a leather jacket with painted arms and a pierced body stormed toward the bikes. I observed her fired eyes, hot with frustration, as she approached her seat. She spotted the rock and eyed it for a few seconds, looking around in confusion. She picked it up and toyed it between her fingers for a while. Then she smiled softly, and slipped the stone into her pocket.
For the rest of the summer we did this; bringing color to every Pleasantville we came across, hoping to make strangers smile, even for just a second. When autumn came, it was time for her to leave. She was never around for more than a season at a time.
During her months away, I sat eagerly at the windowsill, waiting for her letters to arrive. She sent them twice a month, but never in a particular order, and always with a different return address. Some came separated by weeks, others in the same day. I always wondered why they came so randomly. When I asked, she told me that love can’t be found in expectation, only in surprise.
Every once in a while, I searched “heart stones” online, finding articles from random cities describing “mysterious stones” being found all over town. Reading these articles, I knew where she was, that she was safe, and she was still spreading joy.
When December came, she didn’t send any letters. I was concerned as the end of the month was approaching. At the start of the new year, I searched again, only to find old articles I had already read. By February, I began mailing letters to every address I’d ever received hers from.
I anxiously checked the mail each morning, never to find her notes. Not until the third of May did something come. Four large packages, too heavy to carry inside. I brought a knife to the porch and cut through the cardboard there. Inside were stacks of plastic bags filled with rocks, painted all colors from red to black with a bright, skinny heart on top.
I picked up a bag, tossing it from hand to hand, then dropping it in the box with a smile. I tore through the others eagerly, shuffling through each one, looking for a note of some kind. I found a folded envelope at the bottom of one.
It didn’t look like it was supposed to. No doodles or stickers on it. No bubbled letters or polka dots. Just a plain, white envelope.
I opened it anyways, finding a folded paper inside. The top line read:
My dear niece, I am sorry...
I continued reading, my eyes running from left to right, left to right, until tears flooded them to a blur and I was no longer listening to my eyes. My body trembled as I clutched the letter in my hand and buried my face in the boxes, hugging the treasures she left behind.
Now I stare tentatively at the mahogany bed before me, her body lying peacefully within it. I feel her cold, blue hands between mine, the same hands that I held last summer, the same hands that painted the rock she now holds, the same hands that pulled the trigger. They weigh lifeless on her stomach now, the abundance of affection stolen by the stones, vacuumed by the cities, sucked dry by each stranger, enjoyed by all but herself.