I was 32 years old the day I discovered I wasn't really an orphan. But by then, I had already buried three people: my mother, my father, and then my grandmother. Or so I thought.
The letter arrived three days after his funeral.
The same old kitchen table. The same ugly vinyl record. The same empty chair with its cardigan still hanging on the back. The house smelled of dust and a faint scent of cinnamon, as if it were trying to remember her.
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