❝ I called my mom today. She passed away when I was seventeen, and now I’m thirty. For years, I’ve carried all the words I never got to say — apologies, thank-yous, and a thousand tiny stories from my life she never got to see. I told her about my new job, the cat I rescued, the garden I started. The wind was strong, and it almost felt like she was answering back. This space reminded me that love doesn’t end when a life does.❞

❝ I picked up the phone today and told my mom I finally made her favorite soup. It felt silly at first, talking into nothing, but then I realized it wasn’t nothing, it was everything I needed to say. The wind was calm, like she was listening.❞

❝ I told my brother I still laugh at the dumb jokes he used to make. It’s strange how grief never really ends — it just changes shape. Talking to him here made me feel lighter, like a small piece of him was still around.❞

❝ When I came here, I didn’t know what to say. It’s been three years since I lost my wife, and I thought I’d already said everything there was to say. But standing there, holding the receiver, the silence said more than words ever could. I told her about our son — how he’s growing up too fast, how he still asks about her. I told her we miss her laughter. When I hung up, I didn’t feel sad. I felt... connected. Like she was right there, listening through the wind.❞