For a moment, the room was silent. Then his mother’s face crumpled, tears falling as she whispered, “We failed him.” The air shifted — grief gave way to memories, laughter, and stories I’d never heard. The house that once echoed with loneliness became filled again with warmth, as if his spirit had drawn us together.
That evening, as the sun dipped low, we sat side by side in his favorite room — the one he built with his own hands. And for the first time since he left, peace wrapped around me like an old friend.
I still live in that house today. It no longer feels like a shrine to what I lost, but a living reminder of what we created together. Because love, I’ve learned, doesn’t die with the person — it finds its way home, turning pain into healing, and walls into warmth.