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My grandfather's passing was classified as an accident, a tragic event that occurred when he was 86 years old. As he witnessed his friends from the same generation gradually departing from this world, he would always remind us that he might be next in line. This awareness influenced the household, which remained mostly unchanged, except for a few modernizations prompted by his children. Before selling the house where my father and aunts had grown up, they spent eight months in mourning, meticulously emptying its rooms. Together, they carefully examined my grandfather's memories and possessions, contemplating which ones should disappear and which should be cherished.

With some hesitation, my request to visit my grandfather's house was eventually granted. I stopped by a few days after his passing and just before the broker was scheduled to receive the key. With the door leading to the room where my grandfather tragically met his end firmly locked.

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