Open in spring, the envelope said. The family obeyed too literally: after the sender died in February, nobody wanted to decide which spring she had meant. The envelope passed through three houses unopened.
Her grandson Dorian finally asked the relatives whether he could read it. Inside were seeds, a planting note and a small drawing of a window box. There was no final revelation. His grandmother had prepared a practical gift before she knew she would not be there to ask how it grew.
The seeds were old enough that success was uncertain. Dorian sowed a small selection and labeled the tray with the planting date, keeping the remaining packet with the letter. Two shoots appeared. He sent photographs to the family without suggesting that their growth carried a message beyond the care that prepared them.
At the next gathering, the window box stood on the sill. The relatives argued cheerfully about watering. For years, the envelope's instruction had prevented anyone from using its contents. Opening it returned the gift to ordinary life, where something could be tended without first agreeing on what a dead person must have intended.