My grandmother’s hand flew to her mouth. “Thomas…” she whispered.
The man didn’t step inside. He didn’t offer condolences. He didn’t explain how he knew my grandfather. He only said, “He wanted this delivered today. On Saturday.” Then he placed the flowers and envelope into my grandmother’s trembling hands, gave a small nod that felt like respect, and walked away before either of us could stop him.
The door clicked shut. For a moment, the house was so still I could hear my grandmother’s breath hitching. She carried the bouquet to the kitchen table like it was something fragile enough to break. She set it in the empty vase. Her fingers shook so badly I reached out and steadied the glass.
Then she stared at the envelope. “I don’t like surprises,” she said softly, but her voice cracked on the last word.
“I’m here,” I told her, even though I didn’t know what that meant.
Her thumb slid under the flap. She opened it carefully, like the paper might bite. Inside was a folded letter. Her eyes moved across the page, and the color drained from her face so fast it scared me.
“What?” I whispered. “Grandma… what does it say?”
She didn’t answer right away. She read it again, slower this time, as if her brain couldn’t accept the words the first time. Then she held it out to me. My grandfather’s handwriting leaned across the page, familiar and steady—like his hand had never trembled.
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