When Grandma was dying, I was 25.
Watching someone you love slowly fade from the world does something to you. It chips away at you, little by little. I remember how the house felt near the end.
It was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that made it feel like the walls were holding their breath.
One night, she called me into her room. Her voice was so faint I had to kneel beside her bed to hear her clearly.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, her fingers gently brushing mine, “after I’m gone, promise me you’ll move my rosebush.
Dig it up after a year. Don’t forget.”
I nodded, even though my throat was tight and my chest ached. I didn’t understand why it mattered so much, but the look in her eyes was firm.
“I promise, Grandma.”
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