When I was little, I used to lie outside and reach my hands out to the sky above, convinced I could touch the great moving clouds, if I just extended my arms a little further, I can still remember the way Papa used to speak about her, his voice a mix of reverence and sorrow. He said that Mum was up there, in a place he called heaven, where the sun always shone, and pain no longer existed. But now, as I sit in this quiet room filled with silence, I find it hard to hold onto those beliefs. The concept feels distant and fragile, like a child's fairy tale. Honestly, I don't know what I believe anymore. All I know is that Mum is gone, her laughter now just an echo in my memory, and now Papa has joined her, leaving me with an emptiness I can't quite comprehend.