Rain tapped softly against the hospital window, steady and gentle, like the world was trying to be quiet for her. My grandmother had been in that room for two weeks. The doctors had already said what none of us wanted to hear. Maybe a week. Maybe two, if we were lucky…. So I spent every day beside her bed, holding her hand, pretending we were just passing time instead of counting what was left of it. We looked through old photo albums, laughed at crooked hairstyles, teased my mother’s childhood fashion choices, and spoke about the past like it was...
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