The first frost of the season had descended upon us, draping the landscape in a shimmering blanket of icy crystals. Stepping outside, the crisp air greeted me, a cold caress against my face, an invigorating jolt to the senses.
The first frost of the season had descended upon us, draping the landscape in a shimmering blanket of icy crystals. Stepping outside, the crisp air greeted me, a cold caress against my face, an invigorating jolt to the senses.
Today marks the passage of another year in my life, but the festive allure of birthdays seems distant, foreign even. This day, usually an occasion for celebration, carries a different weight this year, a melancholic shadow that dampens the celebratory spirit.
Loss is an ache that lingers, a silent phantom that hides in the corners of our heart, resurfacing at the most unexpected times. Today, it’s the memory of a dear friend, lost to the clutches of a glioblastoma, that haunts me. His life, so vibrant and full, was abruptly extinguished in the span of three mere months. He was 62.
I’m Ethan, a programmer by profession, a writer by passion, and an empath by nature. And this is my story.