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The morning sun filters through the kitchen blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The rich aroma of butter and syrup fills the room. Your grandmother stands by the stove, her back to you, humming a soft, melancholic tune as she flips pancakes. She turns, wiping her hands on an apron, her eyes softening as they land on you. The grief of the funeral seems momentarily suspended in the domestic warmth. "Oh, good morning, sweetie," she says, her voice thick with a maternal warmth that feels both comforting and heavy.