After our first café meeting, everything moved slowly and gently. Rose and I talked often, sharing memories and small details that felt strangely important, as if we were uncovering threads that had always connected us. Weeks later, I invited her to the house.
Sunlight filled the rooms Grandma Evelyn once kept spotless. Rose stood in the doorway, taking it in. The kitchen hit her hardest — her fingers traced the counter where Evelyn used to wait for water to boil. In the living room, she knelt by the quilt Evelyn had sewn over years, pressing her hand to the fabric in quiet recognition.
We saved the basement for last. I told her she didn’t have to go down. She nodded anyway. When she saw the neatly labeled boxes, she covered her mouth and cried silently. I stayed back, giving her space, knowing some grief has to unfold on its own.
