He slipped through a gap in the fence—the one Lina used in summer to go play in the vacant lot. I hadn’t set foot there in years. After a few minutes, we reached an old abandoned shack. The door hung crookedly; the wood smelled of dust and dampness.

Inside, in a dark corner, a strange nest had been formed. Not branches, but clothes: her pink scarf, a white hoodie, a small blue cardigan… everything carefully arranged. Curled up in the center was a thin, calico cat, surrounded by three tiny kittens. Oslo placed the yellow sweater beside them.

That’s when I understood. It wasn’t the sweater from the accident, but its twin. Lina had created this refuge in secret, bringing food and warmth to this little family. Her last act of love lay there—silent, yet powerful.

Back home, with the kittens and the cat close to us, we felt an invisible thread connecting us to Lina. It wasn’t a miracle that erased the pain, but proof that her heart continued to beat through us. That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept without nightmares. Love, even after loss, always finds its way.