A month had passed since my son, Lucas, was killed. One driver looking the wrong way, one ordinary afternoon, and my bright eight-year-old boy vanished from the world. Since then, my days had all bled into the same gray haze. Our house felt hollow, as if every room exhaled a long, tired silence. I kept drifting into his bedroom, staring at the Lego set he never finished, the books he left open, the faint scent of his shampoo that still clung stubbornly to his pillow. Grief didn’t come in clean lines; it came in jagged waves that knocked me down...
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