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People often say that grief comes in waves, but when my grandfather, Richard Ashford, died, there was no wave—only an emptiness. A deep, aching stillness, like the darkness that settles when the last light in a room is suddenly turned off. Richard was a man remembered by the smell of pipe tobacco, the solidity of polished wood, and a booming laugh that filled every corner of his study. To the outside world, he was a powerful real estate magnate, a man of wealth and influence. To my parents, Diana and Mark, he was little more than a financial resource, a safe they had spent years trying to pry open. But to me, he was just Grandpa—the one person who never treated me like a failure, but as someone worth listening to.
At the funeral, I stood near the back as rain traced slow lines down the stained-glass windows. My parents occupied the front row, displaying their sorrow with rehearsed elegance. Diana wore an expensive black dress, delicately pressing a handkerchief to eyes that never truly filled with tears. Mark shook hands solemnly, embodying the image of a devoted son.
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