I opened one and began to read, drawn in by her handwriting. In an entry written long before I was born, she described a time when life felt overwhelming and air itself seemed scarce. Opening the window, even when the cold cut deep, became her reminder that the world extended beyond her pain and that hope still existed.
Understanding washed over me through tears. That habit had been her lifeline, a silent lesson she carried forward into motherhood. Every cold breeze that filled our home had carried resilience and faith, teaching without words that there is always room to breathe again.
That night, I opened my own window wide. As the chill swept in, I felt her strength beside me. For the first time since losing her, the loneliness eased, and I understood what she meant.
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