When I was a child, my mother slept with her bedroom window open even during the coldest winter nights. I used to tease her, asking why she wanted to turn the house into a freezer. She would only smile, pull another blanket over herself, and say she slept better with fresh air.
After she passed away, I began clearing out her room. While emptying the bedside drawer, I found a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. They were written by my father, who had died when I was very young.
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