Lisa MacIntyre was the kind of person who could make an ordinary apartment feel like a home. Her laughter filled the silence, her warmth eased every rough edge, and her presence lingered in the quiet moments long after she was gone. She was love and comfort embodied - a photograph that never quite fades, a voice you swear you still hear when the nights are longest.

Grief does strange things to memory. It reshapes, distorts, and blurs the line between what was real and what we wish had been. Sometimes love is a comfort. Sometimes it’s a curse.

You know it. The truth. Lisa is dead.