At my daughter’s funeral, my son-in-law whispered, “24 hours—get out of my house.” I didn’t argue, just smiled, packed one bag, and disappeared that night. Seven days later… his phone rang—and everything began to fall apart.

Without Laura, it felt hollow. As if her absence had emptied the walls themselves, leaving only furniture and photographs standing stiffly inside a place that no longer belonged to either of us. When I passed her room, the door stood half-open. I stopped, resting one hand on the frame, looking at the bed she had slept in as a teenager, now neatly made and untouched.

I could almost hear her voice again. “Dad, why do you always knock twice? I already told you to come in.”

I stepped inside and stood there in silence. Her perfume still lingered faintly in the air, mixed with detergent and the old-paper scent of books on the shelf. On the desk was a framed wedding photo of her and Daniel—her smile bright, his posture proud.

On the nightstand sat a smaller photograph: Laura at eight years old on my shoulders at the beach, her arms stretched wide like wings. I picked it up gently.

Later, in my room, I pulled out a small suitcase. I packed only essentials—clothes, socks, underwear, the sweater she once bought me because, as she joked, I needed “something respectable” for her business events. I added my documents, which I always kept neatly in a folder: my ID, bank papers, a few contracts.