Six months ago, I buried my only son, Ben. He was fifteen—smart, funny, and my whole world. His funeral was full of people who hugged me, cried with me, and promised support.

Then, they vanished. Calls stopped. Visits never came. Except for one person: Daniel, my son’s best friend.

Daniel, an awkward sixteen-year-old, showed up every week during Ben’s three-year battle with a heart condition. He brought comics he’d drawn, cracked jokes to make Ben laugh, and sat by his bed for hours.

One night, as machines hummed, Ben whispered:
“Dad… Continues…