That morning started like any other. I went into our garage to retrieve an old toolbox, a task that usually fell to my husband, who kept the space organized and knew exactly where everything was kept. I rarely set foot in there, but for some reason, I felt the urge to handle it myself that day. The garage lights flickered with a cold, uneven glow, casting long, dancing shadows. One of the bulbs had been failing for months, and the air smelled of dust, old paint, and stagnant oil—the scent of forgotten things. As I walked toward the back wall,…
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