But there would never be another breakfast, or even another visit with her dad. And the girl wondered, "What do I do now? I've always known what to do, always had an answer (or at least an opinion), but what now? How do I stand this waiting, this lonely waiting half a world away?"
There was no answer; only silence.
So the girl began to fill the silence with words. She wrote. She wrote stories and blogs and even songs to try to remember anything she could about her father - to try to come up with some way to honour him and fit the puzzle pieces together.
"I remember that he once worked at a chocolate factory. And then a winery. And he played the French horn. He loved motorcyles. But what did his voice sound like? Did he ever hug me? Did he love me? "
Eventually, she ran out of words. And as she sat alone in the silence, she took a deep breath.
Now silence is a funny thing because it forces you to face your fears - those deep fears you try to suppress with all sorts of entertainment and noise and busyness. Fears we'd like to laugh off with a false sense of confidence. Fears like, "Am I the only one who feels this way?", "What if they knew my secret?", and "What if I can't do it?"