When I moved into my late father’s house, I expected creaky floors and old pipes, but not the strange noises coming from the attic every night. Curiosity turned into fear, and when I finally installed hidden cameras, what I saw made me question everything I thought I knew about him.
Every ending is just a beginning. That’s what I kept telling myself as I stood in the empty hallway of my father’s house, surrounded by boxes.
Endings hurt, but they always push you toward something new, whether you’re ready or not.
I hadn’t spoken to my father in almost ten years. Not because of some explosive fight or betrayal, but because he had a way of closing doors without slamming them.
