She couldn’t remember how she got here. All she knew was when she opened the door all she saw were his feet. Why was the door even cracked open? She pushed the door open as quickly as she noticed his feet. “Dad!!” She shouted. There he laid, on the floor, in yesterday’s clothes. The lights were on. The tv was blasting. And there he laid, on the floor. She dialed 911 as fast as she could while checking for his pulse and holding his cold hands in her warm ones. She touched his face and just knew it was too late. Sirens and flashing lights as far as the eye could see. The street was closed. The coroner came and went. All of the first responders came and went. And there she stayed, alone, pacing, trying to figure out what happened. The death certificate read heart failure and that’s all we know. Now she sits on the floor where he once laid to try to figure out the puzzle. How did it happen? Was he in pain? Why was the door open? Then she remembers she always told him to leave the door open if he felt something was wrong. He left the door open for her. She knows this. She cleans and empties his whole apartment by herself. She does not want help. She needs to be alone with his ghost. She blasts his favorite songs and laughs and cries with beautiful memories made. She still hears him everyday, she talks to him. He is with her always. She misses her Dad. She’s glad she is the one that found him, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.