The package arrived on a gray afternoon, the kind that pressed low against the windows like it wanted to crawl inside the room with me.

I almost didn’t open it.

My name was written on the box in handwriting I didn’t recognize—careful, slightly slanted. Italian stamps. A return address that meant nothing. For a moment, I thought it was another grant document, maybe art supplies I didn’t remember ordering. Something harmless.

I was wrong.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the box resting on my knees, my hands shaking as if my body already knew. I stared at it for too long. Long enough for my chest to...