Twin beams of light still rise above lower Manhattan every September, standing exactly where the towers stood, reaching a height the buildings themselves can no longer claim. There's something almost otherworldly in that image — an absence turned into something you can see from miles away. It might be the closest thing I know to what real grief looks like once it's finally given room: not the structure rebuilt exactly as it was, but something new standing in its place, reaching even higher, made of nothing but memory and light.