Richard Dale was 25 years old, a Black man from St. Louis, Missouri, and his death left a space that people could feel immediately—the kind of absence that changes the temperature of a room, the kind of silence that makes everyday things suddenly unfamiliar. In the simplest description, he died young. In the truer one, he was taken from the ongoing story of the people who loved him, and the fact that there isn’t more publicly provided here about what happened only sharpens the sense of unfin
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