Dad.

"You didn't teach me many words, but the silence you left behind speaks for my whole life."

I didn't write you letters.

We didn't have a habit.

We didn't talk much, just like we talked.

Yet, now that you're not here anymore, I realize:

You said everything important without saying it.

I remember that moment.

I stroked your head.

I leaned over and whispered:

"Open your eyes now."

You didn't open them.

And I've carried that sentence with me ever since.

Not with guilt.

Not with questions.

But with some strange, quiet love.

I miss you.

But you weren't loud in my life.

You weren't present with advice.

But with being there.

The silence around you was safe.

It wasn't tense.

It wasn't demanding.

It just gave me space.

And this silence became mine.

When I am silent today, when I do not speak back, when I stop for a moment in the noise of the world, then I am not empty.

Then you are with me.

I did not have to send this letter.

Because what was important, you have received long ago.

And what I received from you has not passed with you.

With love, your son.

"This letter is not a farewell. But a reminder that silence is also an inheritance."