The next morning, my mom called, her voice trembling. Grandma had passed away peacefully in her sleep.
It didn’t feel real. I drove straight to her small house — the same cozy place that had always smelled like lavender and freshly baked bread. I went there to help clean up, but the moment I stepped into her kitchen, I froze.
On the table were dozens of tiny gift boxes, carefully arranged in neat rows. Each one was wrapped with a golden ribbon and had a name tag — mine, my parents’, my cousins’, even my uncle’s name, the one who hadn’t visited her in years.
I walked closer, heart pounding. Inside each box was something small but deeply personal — a keepsake, a photograph, or a letter written in her familiar, looping handwriting.
And that’s when it hit me.
