They say time heals, but grief doesn’t care about calendars. Thirteen years after my dad died, I still felt him everywhere—in the kettle’s hiss, in late-afternoon light, in the instinct to call someone who would never answer. He raised me alone after my mom left. He was my entire world. I hadn’t been back to his house since the funeral. I told myself I stayed away because I didn’t need anything from it. Truth was, I wasn’t ready. But eventually, I stood at the door with the old copper key and whispered, “You can do this.” The house felt like a lung trying to breathe without its heart.

I meant only to grab some documents. No wandering. No memories. But habit pulled me to the attic. Dust lifted as I pushed the hatch. Boxes, sweaters, his flannel still faintly scented like him. Then I found a scuffed leather bag I knew instantly: our weekend gaming bag.
Inside was a note in his handwriting:
“We will play after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m proud of you!”....