He lived in a small flat above the cliff. A kettle on the stove. A window that watched the edge where rock meets water. When someone stood too near, he crossed the road. He offered tea and time. Simple moves. The kind that steady a shaking day. He’s gone now, though his legacy will last lifetimes.

It comes without a knock. You don’t plan for it. One day, something shifts, and the air all of a sudden feels heavier. I was five years...

It was raining. One of those mornings where no one makes eye contact. Everyone just wants to get dry, find a seat, move on.

Mirror, mirror on the wall. I am my father after all. My father never really retired. He set one set of tools down, then picked up...