We hadn’t been in it. She handed me another note. Another sketch. Same style. Same message:“You’re not alone. You never were.” That’s when I knew—it was my brother Jordan’s handwriting. He died six years ago. Never met Micah. But somehow, Micah knew him. Since then, there’ve been more notes, more sketches—each one appearing exactly when I need it most. One said:
“He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.” So if you’ve ever felt like someone you lost is still riding beside you, maybe they are. Love doesn’t always leave. Sometimes, it just changes seats.