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When my husband’s belongings were placed gently back into my hands after he was gone, I sorted through them slowly, one piece at a time. Grief has a way of slowing the world down. Each item felt like a small reminder of the life we had built together.
The small device puzzled me, and for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I slipped it into my pocket.
Later that week, I drove slowly through our neighborhood, pressing the button from time to time, almost expecting nothing to happen. But as I turned onto a quiet corner a few blocks away, a garage door began to rise.
