A mysterious box appeared on the porch of my new home, with just a slip of paper in it that read: "For the little girl with the big laugh."

It was a small box, maybe eight inches square. It was made of some sort of cheap pine, with a lid held down with a rickety elastic band. I was sitting in my car in the driveway, door open, boots on the back of my seat, laces untied as I always wore them, when I saw it. It had not been there when I pulled up, but now it sat squarely on my front porch, like it had been there all along.<br><br>I looked around to see if someone was watching, but I was alone on my street. I turned the engine off, grabbed the box, and brought it inside to investigate.<br><br>It was light, hollow. The only things inside were a folded up slip of paper, and a small plastic mouse toy. The mouse was white, and had red buttons for eyes, and a red smile that made it look like it was always grinning.<br><br>I picked up the mouse, turning it in my fingers. It was soft and lightweight, and looked like it had been made in the 1950s. I turned it over and found the only marking on it was the name “Mr. Whiskers” printed on the bottom in red letters.<br><br>I set the mouse aside, and picked up the folded up slip of paper. It was a bit damp from the rain the night before, so it unfolded a little stiffly. I smoothed it out and sat down in my living room to read it.<br><br>"For the little girl with the big laugh."<br><br>I read the note twice, just to be sure I wasn’t seeing things. I sat in silence for a moment, thinking.<br><br>I’m thirty-two years old. I have never owned a pet. I don’t have any siblings, and my parents died when I was in college. I don’t have any aunts or uncles, cousins, or grandparents who might have left me a gift. I live alone in a small house in a suburb of Portland, Oregon. I work from home as a freelance writer, and I’m married to my job. I don’t have any friends. I used to have friends, but I don’t anymore. I spend all of my time alone in my little house, typing on my computer, and eating ramen noodles out of Tupperware.<br><br>I don’t know who could have left me the box, or where the mouse had come from. I don’t have any little girl neighbors. I live on a street of small houses, but none of the people who live there are younger than me. I don’t know any little girls in the area who would have sent me a box, unless maybe it was my stepsister Emma.<br><br>Emma and I have a complicated history. Our dad married her mom when I was eleven, and Emma was eight. Our dad died when we were teenagers, and Emma moved away with her mom. I stayed behind, and finished high school with our dad’s aunt. We’ve had almost no contact since then, and what little contact we have had has been awkward and unpleasant.<br><br>I think about Emma sometimes. I think about the day our dad died. I think about the way she used to make me laugh when we were kids. I think about the way she smiled when we were little, and how her laugh used to sound like mine. I think about how much I missed her when she left, and how much I resented her for leaving me. But I’ve been working on that. I’ve been trying to forgive her, and to move on.<br><br>I look at the mouse again, and think about Emma’s laugh. It was so similar to mine that it sounds like someone had stolen my voice and was using it to laugh whenever Emma laughed. Emma had a big laugh, and she loved to laugh. She was always laughing as a little girl. I remember that. I remember her smiling at me, and making me smile. I remember her making me laugh. But I remember the day she stopped laughing too. I remember the day she left. And I remember the day our dad died.<br><br>I put the slip of paper down, and picked up the mouse again. It was so light, it almost felt like I was holding air. But somehow, it felt heavy. I looked at it and thought about our dad, about Emma, and about our lives. I thought about the way we used to be, and the way we stopped being. I thought about the day our lives changed forever.<br><br>And then I started to laugh. <br><br>I had laughed before, of course, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much I had stopped laughing. How much I had stopped smiling. How much I had stopped enjoying life. It started to hit me that I had been so focused on being miserable that I had forgotten how to be anything else.<br><br>I sat there laughing until tears streamed down my face, and my jaw ached from clenching my teeth. I laughed until my stomach hurt, until my sides ached, until my lips hurt from smiling so much. I laughed until I cried.<br><br>And then I stopped.<br><br>I wiped my face with the hem of my t-shirt, and took a deep breath. I looked around my living room, and realized that I was alone. I had laughed until I cried, and then I had stopped, but I hadn’t cried again. I had laughed and cried, but I hadn’t stopped laughing. I was still laughing.<br><br>I laughed again, because I couldn’t help it. I laughed at the thought of how much I had forgotten how to be anything else. I laughed at the realization that I had forgotten how to be happy. I laughed at the absurdity of it all.<br><br>I laughed until it hurt again, until I couldn’t catch my breath. And then I stopped.<br><br>I sat in silence for a moment, taking deep breaths. I felt like I had been holding my breath the entire time, even when I was laughing. I felt like I needed to hold on to something, like the ground beneath me was shifting, and I needed to be careful not to fall.<br><br>But I didn’t fall.<br><br>I sat there, still and silent, taking deep breaths. I let the tears dry on my face, and I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. I looked at the mouse, and then at the slip of paper, and smiled.<br><br>I stood up, and walked to the kitchen. I opened the cabinet above the sink, and pulled out a plastic container from the back. I dumped the ramen noodles out, and set them aside. Then I opened the box, and set it on top of the noodles.<br><br>I picked up the mouse, and set it on top of the box. I looked at it, and smiled again. Then I opened the note, and read it again.<br><br>"For the little girl with the big laugh."<br><br>I smiled again, and folded up the paper. I set it aside with the noodles. Then I looked at the mouse. I picked it up, and smiled again.<br><br>I walked back to the living room, mouse in hand, and set it on the coffee table. Then I sat down, and picked it up again. I held it in my hand, and looked at it. It was a mouse, after all. But it looked like my mouse, or at least my childhood mouse.<br><br>I had always wanted a mouse when I was a kid. I wanted one of those little stuffed mice that you could squeeze and it would make mouse sounds. I wanted one that you could hang from the back of your car seat and shake back and forth while you drove. I even wanted a real mouse, but my parents said no. They said I was too young to have a pet, and that real mice are dirty and gross and smell bad. But I wanted one so badly. I wanted one so badly that I cried about it.<br><br>I put the mouse back on the coffee table, and picked up the box. I looked at the lid, and tried to figure out how to open it. There was no latch, no clasp, no hinge, no nothing. It was just a small box made of cheap pine with a lid held down with a rickety elastic band. I picked at the band until I finally got it to come undone. Then I lifted the lid, and looked inside.<br><br>It was empty. There was no mouse inside, no note, no nothing. Just a small, hollow box.<br><br>I sat there for a moment, staring at the box. I tried to figure out where the mouse had gone, but I had no idea. I had picked it up when I was looking at it, and I had set it on the coffee table. I must have set it down then, but it wasn’t inside the box, and it wasn’t on the coffee table anymore. It was gone.<br><br>I set the box down, and looked around the room. I looked on the table, on the floor, under the couch, and behind the chair. But it was gone. I couldn’t find it anywhere.<br><br>I sighed, and stood up. I walked over to the coffee table, and picked up the mouse again. I looked at it, and smiled.<br><br>"I’m sorry," I said. "I guess I should have asked before taking it."<br><br>I walked over to the bookshelf, and set the mouse on top of a pile of books. I picked up the note, and read it again. Then I set it on top of the mouse.<br><br>"For the little girl with the big laugh."<br><br>I looked at the note, and smiled again. Then I looked at the mouse.<br><br>"Thanks," I said. "I really needed that."<br><br>I turned around, and walked back to the couch. I sat down, and picked up the mouse again. I held it in my hand, and smiled.<br><br>"I guess I’m not a little girl anymore," I said. "But I