I used to laugh at her for sleeping with the window open in winter. She’d just smile and say, “Fresh air keeps the soul alive.” After she was gone, I found her journals and understood—on the hardest nights, she opened that window to remind herself there was still a world beyond the pressure she felt.
Standing in her room, I did the same. The cold didn’t take away the grief, but it eased it. In that moment, I understood her strength—sometimes hope is quiet, just a small opening that lets you keep going.
