At five o'clock in the morning, when the rooster crows its first crow, we are all awakened by the shrill screams of mother. We all hurriedly get up and follow the direction of the shout to our parents' bedroom. I used to believe that today would be a beautiful day. I was already sure of it. And at that moment, I also believed that my heart had stopped beating.

That morning, our family had to witness a scene that we could never, absolutely never, have imagined happening. My father, the pillar of the family, the father we respected so much, the man who taught us our first words, taught us how to ride horses and wield swords, the one who taught me to cherish my own happiness, died in his own armchair. He sat there, as if he were just sleeping, with a smile on his face and the family portrait in his arms. Jars of paint were scattered on the floor, and a reddish-brown liquid still lingered on his lips.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

That summer, I lost my father. He passed away, taking with him all of the parts of me.