Fading Fragrance

Every night, I clung to my father’s tattered sweater, inhaling the lingering scent of tobacco and pine. It was all I had left of him. When he was alive, his stories and laughter filled our home of warmth in winter. One evening, I misplaced the sweater. I searched every corner, finding it soaked in the backyard. Holding it to my chest, I wept, realizing the sweater’s threads were fraying, just like my memories. But as tears fell, I felt his presence, not in the fabric, but in the love we shared, in our talks, and in rainy days, eternally unbreakable.