He was getting thinner and paler. His hands, once so strong, trembled when he lifted a glass of water.
One evening, after helping him get back to bed, he squeezed my wrist with surprising force.
"Maren," he said softly, "I have something to tell you."
"You need to rest," I replied, smoothing the blanket over him. "We can talk later."
He looked at me with an expression I didn't quite understand. It was sad and almost urgent.
"There may not be a sequel."
"Don't say that," I whispered, panic rising within me. "Everything will be alright."
But there was no follow-up.
He died in his sleep two weeks after my graduation.
I found him the next morning, peaceful and motionless, with a very slight smile on his lips.
The world did not collapse spectacularly. It simply stopped.
The house seemed immense and silent, without the sound of his cough or the creaking of his armchair. I felt like I was living underwater. I barely ate. I barely slept.
Then the bills started arriving.
Electricity. Water. Property taxes. Insurance.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I stared at the envelopes, anxiety knotting my stomach. Grandfather had bequeathed me the house in his will, but how was I going to keep it? I had no savings, no job, no plans.
I might have to sell the house. My higher education might be jeopardized. Survival had become my only goal.
Two weeks after the funeral, my phone rang.
This number was unknown to me.
"Good morning?"
"Is that Maren Hayes?" asked a woman.
"Yes."
