Four days before Christmas, the house felt suspended in a frozen, unnatural silence. The string lights my mother had insisted on hanging weeks earlier still glowed along the window frames, their uneven flicker casting a soft, stubborn warmth that clashed painfully with the emptiness she had left behind. She had loved those lights, even when cancer had hollowed her out, even when chemo had drained her strength. “Sparkle,” she used to say, “reminds me that I’m still here.” Now, she wasn’t. And the only thread tying me to her presence was her black cat, Cole. My mother had passed quietly...
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