A week ago, my grandfather passed away.
It happened quietly. Peacefully. My grandmother held his hand until his last breath, whispering to him, telling him it was okay to rest.
After that, the house felt unbearably empty.
The ticking clock seemed louder. The silence stretched longer. Even the sunlight through the windows felt colder somehow.
I stayed with my grandmother that week.
I told myself it was to help her—sorting through his things, organizing paperwork, making sure she wasn’t alone.
But truthfully, I needed it too.
I wasn’t ready to let go of him either.
That Saturday morning, I woke up earlier than usual.
For a brief, disoriented moment, I expected to smell fresh flowers.
But the kitchen table was empty.
I stood there for a while, staring at the vase.
