“Just let us know when you’re coming.”
The day I returned to Grandma’s yard, it felt… wrong. Not because of the tenants.
They were lovely. But the house didn’t feel like hers anymore. The energy had shifted.
It was colder and distant. Even the wind felt unfamiliar, like the house no longer recognized me.
The rosebush stood in the same corner, near the white fence, just as proud as ever. I dropped to my knees, tugged on my gardening gloves, and whispered, “Alright, Grandma.
I’m here.”
The soil was hard and dry. Every time I pushed the spade down, it fought me. I could hear birds in the distance, the rustle of leaves.
Sweat trickled down my back as I dug deeper, hands aching.
Then it happened.
Clunk.
The sound sent a chill through me. I froze.
It wasn’t a root. It wasn’t a rock.
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