As the months passed, Grandma grew frail, but her spirit never dimmed. We spent Sundays sharing her love stories — wartime letters, kitchen dances, and stolen cookies. I realized then how rare it was to witness a love so strong that even death couldn’t break it.
One rainy Sunday, I found her laughing in the garden, pointing at a rainbow stretching over their house. “He did it again,” she whispered. “He always promised me he’d send one when it was time.” That night, Grandma passed peacefully. On her nightstand was the same pocket watch, still ticking at 6:17, and a note: “He found me again. Don’t cry for us — love never dies. It just changes rooms.”
