Ten years is a long time to live without answers. Long enough for neighbors to whisper, for friends to urge you to move on, for the world to forget. But silence doesn’t erase everything. Some things remain—frozen in the moment they were lost. For me, it was my daughter. Nana. Sundays used to belong to her—music blaring, laughter spilling through the house, pancakes burning because she flipped them too soon. She’d sing into spoons and spatulas, turning breakfast into a performance. That was before she vanished. Now Sundays are quiet. Too quiet. Sometimes I still set a plate without realizing…
