The house didn’t feel real anymore. Not after Daniel died. Even weeks after the funeral, I still caught myself pausing in the kitchen, listening for the familiar sound of his truck pulling into the driveway. I’d stand there, holding my breath, waiting for the front door to creak open and for his voice to call out, “I’m home!” But the silence never broke. It just stayed. Heavy. Permanent. Daniel had always handled bedtime. It was their ritual—his and Mason’s. Every night, no matter how tired he was, he turned stories into something bigger. He didn’t just read them; he performed...
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