Eli, a seven-year-old boy with tousled hair and solemn eyes, stands in the doorway, hugging a worn teddy bear. He glances at the empty armchair, his lips pressed tight. The silence in the room feels heavy, interrupted only by the distant ticking of a clock.

Eli watches as his mother quietly waters the plants, her face weary but gentle. He remembers playing catch with his father in this very yard, laughter echoing through the air. "I wish Dad was still here. He always made the flowers look so nice," he murmurs, voice trembling.

Eli squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the ache in his chest. He hears footsteps in the hallway, and his mother peers in, her silhouette gentle in the doorway. Mom, a caring woman with tired eyes, enters and sits beside him. "Do you want to talk about Dad?" she asks softly.

Ms. Parker, his teacher, approaches with a gentle smile. "Would you like to help me with the art project today, Eli? We’re making memory boxes," she offers. Hesitant but curious, Eli nods, shuffling toward her.

Eli traces the edges of the photo, a small smile flickering on his lips. Ms. Parker sits beside him, watching quietly. "I miss him, but I think he’d like my box," Eli says, voice steadier now.

Eli glances at the armchair, feeling the ache soften. Mom wraps an arm around him, and together they fill the room with warmth. "We’ll always remember Dad, but we’ll make new memories too," she says, and Eli nods, hope flickering in his eyes.