Grief doesn’t knock; it moves in. It sat beside me at breakfast, followed me down hallways, curled up in the empty half of our bed. I thought I knew every ghost in that house—until I met him. The old man. The bench. The way he said my name like a confession. His Christmas Eve warning sliced through the fog I’d been living in, a single sentence that made the walls of my life tilt and crack. I ran from the house that night, but his voice followed, threading through the dark like a promise I didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. By morning, I understood: some truths don’t wait for permission; they kick the door of your heart and de…

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