Grandmother’s Memories and an Unspoken Worry

The house was silent, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only deep night brings. Outside the window, the occasional rustling of leaves brushed softly against the panes, as if nature itself were whispering forgotten secrets through the wind. Moonlight filtered gently through the curtains, casting silver shadows on the wooden floorboards that creaked faintly with the passage of time.

Inside Grandmother’s Room…

Grandmother slowly pushed open the door to her room, the hinges sighing as if weary with age. The dim glow of a solitary lamp bathed the space in a golden hush. Her footsteps were slow, almost hesitant, as if each step pulled her deeper into memories she wasn’t yet ready to face.

The room smelled faintly of old books and lavender, the scent of comfort, of years gone by. Her eyes fell on the wooden wardrobe tucked neatly in the corner—a piece of furniture that had stood witness to countless seasons, secrets, and stories. It had belonged to her husband once, and long after his passing, it had become her own sanctuary of keepsakes.

With a deep breath, she approached it and opened its tall, creaking doors. The soft rustle of fabric greeted her as she moved aside neatly folded layers of clothing, each one holding a thread of history. Her hand trembled slightly as it reached for a small, timeworn box nestled beneath the clothes. The box was aged—its edges frayed, its metal clasp slightly rusted—but to her, it was priceless.

She carried it gently to the bed and sat down, the mattress sinking softly under her weight. When she lifted the lid, the scent of old paper and faded ink filled the air—memories preserved in silence. Inside, neatly arranged photographs rested like sacred artifacts. The corners were curled, the colors fading, but the emotions they held were sharp and vivid.

Her fingers moved tenderly over the pictures. One showed Hyeon’s parents—young, radiant, and full of life. Their smiles held a promise of a future that never came. Another photo captured a moment from long ago: little Hyeon, barely five, beaming up at the camera with wide, curious eyes and untamed hair. His innocence seemed to shine straight out of the picture.

She brought the photo closer to her heart, her voice barely above a whisper, “Our Hyeon has grown up so much…”

Her words trailed into the quiet, but she wasn’t speaking to herself. She was speaking to the past.

“He always comes first in school. He’s so smart, so responsible. He never complains. He never lets me feel like I’ve had to carry the weight of the world alone.”

A soft, melancholic smile tugged at her lips, but her eyes glistened with a sorrow she could no longer hold back. She reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek, her hands still cradling the photograph like something sacred.

“After you left,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “he became my only reason to live. In this whole wide world, apart from me... he has no one.”

The silence after her words was heavy—thick with grief and unspoken fears. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of it, her breath growing shaky as old thoughts clawed their way to the surface.

“Who will take care of him… when I’m gone?” she murmured, barely able to say it aloud. “Will he be left all alone...?”

Her body tensed. A chill danced down her spine as the depth of her loneliness pressed against her heart. She had buried this fear for so long, hidden it behind daily routines, gentle smiles, and quiet strength—but now, it surfaced like a ghost she couldn’t ignore.

Then, suddenly, as if drawn by a memory, her eyes flicked back to the open wardrobe. A thought stirred. A thread of hope.

She stood again, walked over, and reached deep into a side compartment, pulling out an old mobile phone—a dated, worn-out device that had once belonged to Hyeon’s father. The phone felt heavier than it should have, not because of its weight, but because of everything it represented—regret, love, abandonment, and a bond long severed.

She held it in her wrinkled hands, staring at the black screen for a long time before finally pressing the power button. The screen flickered, dim and sluggish, then lit up with a weak glow. The faint blue light illuminated the deep lines on her face, casting shadows beneath her tired eyes.

Her fingers hovered over the keypad, then slowly began to dial a number—a number she hadn’t called in years, a number etched in her memory like a scar.

The phone began to ring.

Once…

Twice…

Three times…

The sound echoed in the quiet room, stretching each second like eternity.

But just before it could connect, she pressed the red button.

The ringing stopped.

A heavy silence fell again.

She exhaled slowly and placed the phone down on the wooden table beside her. Her gaze remained fixed on it, as though willing it to come alive, to return her unanswered questions. But it remained still and silent.

She sat there for a long time, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes lost in the dark corner of the room. Her heart wrestled with an old decision—one she had buried, one she had once believed was final. But now, that decision was knocking at her door again, quietly, insistently.

Outside, the wind whispered against the windowpane.

And Grandmother closed her eyes, silently preparing for what she now knew she must do.

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