The days after the funeral blurred together. I stayed with Grandma to help sort through his things—books, clothes, the reading glasses he always left on the nightstand.
The house felt hollow without him.
And then Saturday came.
For the first time in fifty-seven years, there were no flowers.
Grandma sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty vase. I made tea, but she didn’t touch it.
“It’s strange,” she said softly, “how something so small can leave such a big hole.”
I squeezed her hand. “He loved you more than anything.”
“I know,” she said. “I just wish I could tell him one more time that I loved him too.”
The following Saturday, there was a knock at the door.
Neither of us expected visitors. When I opened it, a man stood on the porch holding a fresh bouquet and a sealed envelope.
“I’m here on behalf of Thomas,” he said gently. “He asked me to deliver this to his wife… after.”
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