Returning to His Gift
The first time I unlocked the door after his passing, the house embraced me like a memory.
The garden he tended was in bloom.
His books lined the shelves, worn from countless readings.
The walls—once small and familiar—now felt intentional. Safe. Steady.
Instead of grief, I felt quiet peace.
For the first time since his passing, I felt him near.
In the weeks that followed, I cleaned, sorted, and made small repairs. But I left many things untouched:
The chipped mug he always drank from.
The chair by the window, worn just right.
The coat still hanging by the door.
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