The silence of a grieving house is a heavy, physical thing. For two years after my wife Sarah passed away, that silence was my constant companion. It sat with me at the dinner table where three plates used to be, and it followed me into the hallways where Sophie’s laughter had grown thin and fragile. I felt like a ghost in my own life, going through the motions of parenthood while my heart remained buried in the local cemetery. Then Amelia arrived. She didn’t burst into our lives; she drifted in like a warm breeze, carrying the scent of jasmine...
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