Tracie Hicks

The origami heart appeared on Sarah’s kitchen counter, its crisp edges catching the first rays of sunlight that filtered through the worn lace curtains. The red paper stood out against the scratched laminate countertop, a bright splash of color amid the dated cream cabinets and harvest gold appliances from the 1970s. In contrast with its surroundings, the aroma of the old espresso machine making coffee drifted in the air. The heart sat there, folded with precision—a valentine waiting in the cold morning air. Sarah’s fingers trembled as she reached for it, the paper cool against her skin.

Michael.

Her late husband’s presence lingered in every corner of their old mobile home, but this paper heart—it was new. She held the delicate creation to her chest, and her heart drummed unsteady. The scent of the coffee grew cold.

The clock on the wall ticked toward 6 AM, on February 14th. Today marked her second Valentine’s Day without her beloved husband.

Sarah’s cell phone sang Heaven Is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle. Then Jenny’s name flashed across the screen, with a photo of her friend’s bright smile.

Sarah didn’t get a chance to speak before her friend started talking. “Did you think about what we discussed?” Jenny’s voice carried its usual warmth. “Tom from accounting is still interested in that coffee date.”

Sarah’s gaze drifted to the wedding photo on her mantel. Michael’s green eyes sparkled beneath his dark curls. “I’m not ready.”

“It’s been two years, sweetie. Michael would—”

“Want me to be happy. I know.” Sarah traced the edge of the paper heart. “But happiness isn’t coffee with Tom from accounting.”

After ending the call, Sarah wandered through the mobile home, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floors. More hearts waited for her: one nestled between her two potted plants, another tucked into the pages of her favorite book, and a third hanging from the rear-view mirror of her car.

Each one bore the marks of expert craftsmanship, the same precise folds Michael had taught her at the origami class where they first met at the community center. She’d been terrible at it, her clumsy fingers creating lopsided shapes while he produced perfect cranes and stars.

“Your hands know more than you think,” he’d told her, standing behind her chair, his fingers guiding hers through each fold. “You just need to trust them.”

The memory carried his voice, the ghost of his touch, the hint of his Old Spice. Sarah blinked back the tears and set the hearts in a row on her office desk. Throughout the day at work, she kept glancing at them. Memories of her life with Michael drifted in and out. 

That night, Sarah attempted to fold her origami heart in their bedroom, where Michael’s reading glasses still sat on his nightstand next to a dog-eared Stephen King novel. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow across the quilted spread her mother-in-law had made for their wedding. Its pattern of interlocking hearts now faded from years of washing. Their wedding photo watched from the wall, trapped behind dusty glass in a silver frame. The paper fought her, creases appearing in the wrong places, edges refusing to align. Across the room, Michael’s flannel robe hung on the back of the door, its sleeve swaying slightly in the draft from the heating vent. In frustration, she crumpled the red square and threw it across the room, watching it bounce off the watercolor painting of the lighthouse where he’d proposed.

The clock struck 11:10 PM.

A chill swept through the room. Sarah wrapped her covers around her shoulders, watching her breath mist in the cold. The lights flickered once and twice, and the crumpled paper rose from the floor.

It unfolded itself, creases smoothing out as if touched by invisible hands. Sarah’s heart stopped.

11:11 PM.

“Hello, my love.”

Michael stood before her, translucent in the dim light. His form shimmered like sunlight through water, but his smile—that crooked smile—remained unchanged. He wore the same blue sweater and jeans from their last morning together before the icy roads, and the truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel took him away from her. 

Sarah got out of bed. She tried to stand, but her legs gave out. Then, she collapsed onto the floor, one hand pressed against her mouth to hold back a scream.

“I don’t have much time,” Michael said. His voice echoed as if traveling across a great distance. “One hour. That’s all they would give me.”

“They?” Sarah’s voice cracked.

“The ones who maintain the balance.” He gestured upward. “I had to petition for months. Years, maybe. Time moves differently there.”

Sarah stood and reached for him, but her hand passed through his chest—the air around Michael felt electrically charged.

“I can’t touch you,” he said. “But I can show you something.”

He moved to their old record player, and as his fingers passed through the vinyl on the turntable, music began to play—their wedding song, At Last, by Etta James.

“Dance with me?” He held out his hand.

Sarah positioned herself where his hand would be if he were solid. They moved together, maintaining inches of space between them but matching each other step for step. The familiar melody wrapped around them like a warm blanket.

“The hearts,” Sarah said. “You’ve been leaving them.”

Michael nodded. “It takes a lot of energy to manipulate physical objects. But I needed you to know I was here. That I’ve always been here.”

Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

“I wasn’t allowed. Even now, this visit comes with a price.” His form flickered like a candle in the wind. “Sarah, I need to tell you something important.”

The clock struck 11:30 PM.

They spent the next fifteen minutes sharing updates. Sarah told him about his parents, how his mother had started gardening again, and how his father had joined a grief support group. Michael spoke of watching over them all, of the peace he’d found on the other side, of the light that waited for him.

“But you haven’t moved on,” Sarah said.

Michael’s expression turned serious. “Neither have you.”

He led her to their craft room, where origami papers were neatly stacked. With considerable effort, he folded a small corner of a red square.

“Remember what I taught you about paper folding?” he asked.

Sarah nodded. “That every crease matters. That you can’t undo what’s done, only incorporate it into something new.”

“Life is like that too.” His voice grew fainter. “The creases and folds of our experiences shape us, but we can’t unfold the past. We can only choose what to create with what we’re given.”

The temperature in the room dropped further. Frost patterns formed on the windows, and Michael’s form faded around the edges.

“What’s happening?” Sarah asked, panic rising in her throat.

“I’ve been using too much energy to stay connected to this world. The hearts, this visit… it’s taking its toll.” His voice carried an edge of pain. “If I don’t return by midnight, I’ll be trapped between worlds. Neither here nor there. A fate worse than death.”

Sarah’s blood turned to ice. “Then go. Go now!”

“Not yet.” Michael moved to the window, his form growing more transparent. “I need you to understand why I came. Sarah, my love, you have to let me go.”

“I can’t.” The words tore from her throat.

“You must. Every time you refuse to move forward, to open your heart again, it pulls me back. Your grief is an anchor, and I’m drowning in it.”

The clock showed 11:45 PM.

Sarah sank to the floor, sobs raging through her body. Michael knelt before her, his presence a cool whisper against her skin.

“I will always love you,” he said. “But love isn’t about possession. It’s about release.”

Together, they folded one final heart, Sarah’s hands moving through the motions while Michael’s fingers guided her. As the clock approached midnight, they placed it in the fireplace.

“Burn it,” Michael whispered. “Let me go.”

Sarah struck a match. The flame trembled in her hand.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too. Always.”

The heart caught fire, its edges curling into ash. Michael’s form dissolved as the flames consumed the paper, starting from his feet and moving upward.

“Thank you,” he said, his smile radiant even as it faded. “For loving me enough to set me free.”

The clock struck midnight, and he was gone.

Sarah remained by the fireplace until dawn, watching the last embers fade to charcoal beneath the mantel, where their collection of beach glass sparkled in the growing light. When the sun rose, she gathered her coat and keys from the hook by the door, Michael’s empty hook still held its shape beside hers, and drove to the cemetery.

The cemetery spread out before her. It was a patchwork of marble and granite monuments rising from the frost-kissed grass. February’s bitter wind whistled through the bare branches of ancient oak trees. The dead leaves skittered across the path, breaking the morning silence. At Michael’s grave—a simple black granite headstone with a small bronze vase still holding the withered remains of Christmas poinsettias—she placed a single origami heart, the first perfect one she’d ever folded. The morning sun broke through the clouds, turning the ice on neighboring headstones into diamonds, while the breeze caught the paper heart, unfolding it to reveal the message inside: “Thank you for teaching me how to let go.”

She turned away as the wind carried the heart skyward, her steps lighter than they had been in two years. Somewhere, in the space between worlds, Michael smiled and finally found his rest.

And in Sarah’s chest, her heart began to fold itself into something new.