I don’t like the attic much anymore. Too many ghosts live up there, tucked into boxes that smell like dust and cedar. But my youngest granddaughter—fresh out of college, hair still smelling like the city—found her way up there anyway. She rolled down the ramp with a photograph in her hand, careful, like it might bite.

“Grandpa,” she said, kneeling so her eyes met mine. “Who is this?”

The photo trembled between her fingers. You were in it. Laughing. Head thrown back like the world had never taught you how to be afraid. The ’90s sun caught in your hair. You always did laugh like that—full-body, reckless. For a long time, I said nothing. The wheelchair creaked when I shifted. Outside, the late afternoon pressed gold against the windows. Old light. Gentle light. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything. “That,” I finally said, my voice thinner than it used to be, “is your grandmother.”

Her brow furrowed. “But… you never talk about her.”

I smiled. A small one. A tired one.

“Some loves,” I said, “are too loud to speak out loud.”

She waited. Patient. You would’ve liked her.

I took the photo from her and let my thumb trace your face like muscle memory.

“We were young,” I began. And the room fell away, as your memories played frame by frame in his mind. you finish the rest