Sometimes I still hear your voice, Dad — not in the air, but in the quiet corners of my mind.
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Sometimes I still hear your voice, Dad —
not out loud, not in the air around me, but in the quiet corners of my mind where your memory still lives. It comes softly, unexpectedly — the way you said my name, the gentle rhythm of your laugh, the calm strength in your tone when everything around me felt uncertain. In those moments, I stop and listen, wishing I could capture it forever.
Your voice was more than just sound — it was comfort. It was home. It carried warmth, wisdom, and love, even in the smallest words. Now, when life feels heavy, I close my eyes and try to remember it — that familiar tone that could make everything feel right again. The world may move on, but inside me, your voice never truly left. It lingers in every lesson you taught me, every memory we built, every quiet reminder that you are still a part of me.
There are so many things I wish I could tell you now — the stories, the milestones, the struggles. Sometimes, I imagine you sitting beside me, listening, smiling in that way you used to, letting me know that everything will be okay. I replay our moments together, over and over, as if remembering could somehow bring you closer — as if love alone could bridge the space between us.
You were my comfort, my steady hand, my anchor when I drifted. Losing you left a silence nothing else can fill, yet within that silence, your voice still finds me. It’s softer now — not spoken, but felt. It’s there when I need strength, when I need guidance, when I just need to feel loved.
Now, your voice lives in my heart — not as an echo fading into distance, but as a melody that endures. It plays in the stillness of the night, in the calm between heartbeats, in the tender moments when I miss you most. You may not be here in the way you once were, but your presence, your voice, your love — they remain. Forever. 🤍
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