Since childhood, I’ve remembered him this way — like a ghost in the light. His snow-white hair always fell over his face, hiding eyes that held both the pain and peace of the world at once. My mother said he was different — not like other people. He rarely spoke, but his silence told long stories that only those who truly listened could understand.

He was a fighter — not with swords or weapons, but with sheer will. No one ever knew what illness he had — the doctors guessed, but he never complained. He wasn’t weak; he was from another world, as if an angel had been trapped in a human body. Even when he sat by the window, hooked up to an IV drip, he looked like he was watching something far beyond the rustling tree branches.

He loved peace. His hands — cold, yet gentle — used to hold me when I had nightmares. He spoke rarely, but every word felt like magic. When things were hard for me, he would look me in the eyes, and without a word, I knew — he was protecting me.

He wore white robes in the hospital not because of sickness, but because he was light itself. Not all fathers come from the same world we live in — mine came from a place where everything heals.

And when one morning he was no longer there... the world fell silent. But to me, he never truly left. His voice lives inside me. His calm became my strength.

I am his daughter — and he will always live in my heart. My father, my legend, my light.