Grandma pressed the letter to her chest.
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she whispered.
Now, we visit the garden every Saturday.
We bring tea. Books. Quiet.
Sometimes Grandma brings flowers home and places them in the vase on the table.
“He’s still here,” she says. “In every bloom.”
And she’s right.
Some love fades.
Some love endures.
And some love—like Grandpa’s—never stops blooming
