It started as an ordinary morning, a quiet farewell to my father at the cemetery, but what unfolded over the next twenty-four hours would shake me to my core. By the next day, I found myself sitting in a police station, accused of a crime I did not commit, all because of a simple act of kindness toward an elderly blind woman. Grief has a peculiar way of distorting time. Days stretch and blur, and yet every memory pierces sharply, as if freshly made. It had been six months since I lost my father, a man whose absence left a hollow ache in my chest. Though life went on outwardly, inwardly the pain lingered, persistent and unyielding. I sought comfort in weekly visits to his grave, sharing with him the thoughts and words I could no longer voice while he was alive. That morning, the air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly fallen leaves. A gentle breeze rustled through the cemetery’s towering oaks, and sunlight filtered through the…
