I felt a kind of peace wash over me—not the heavy sadness I feared, but a soft, reassuring calm. Instead of losing something, I was rediscovering a part of my father I had forgotten to appreciate fully: his quiet determination, his gentle stewardship of the things he held dear, and the steady way he prepared this final place for me.
Over the weeks that followed, I returned often. I dusted shelves, aired out rooms, and made small repairs. But I was careful to leave certain things exactly as they were—the chair he favored by the window, the small clock on the mantle, the coffee mug with a faint chip on its rim.
Little by little, the house felt less like something he left behind and more like a conversation between us—a place where his care and my memories met.
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