On the morning of her father’s funeral, Hazel stood quietly in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold in her hands. The early light filtering through the curtains gave the house a pale, almost dreamlike glow, but the warmth that once filled every room seemed to have disappeared overnight. Every corner of the home carried memories of her father’s presence, from the chair where he liked to read the newspaper in the mornings to the faint scent of engine oil that still lingered near the back door leading to the garage. The silence felt different from ordinary quiet.

It was heavy, pressing against her thoughts as if even the walls understood the significance of the day ahead. She had barely slept the night before, replaying moments from her childhood in her mind and trying to accept that the man who had guided her through life was truly gone. Hoping to steady her emotions before the long day began, she picked up her phone and began scrolling through old photos stored in the gallery. The images captured years of small but meaningful moments: family dinners, birthdays, road trips, and quiet afternoons in the backyard.