When my father passed away, the world seemed to shift under my feet. Grief has a strange habit of stealing time, stretching some moments unbearably long while compressing others into blinks. For weeks, I walked through my days as if moving underwater: slow, heavy, unreal. Despite everything, I believed I knew precisely what my father had left behind. He owned our small family home, a modest savings account, and a collection of old fishing gear he considered priceless for sentimental reasons. Nothing complicated. Nothing mysterious….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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