My grandmother and I shared a bond that was deeper than words. She had been my guide, my confidante, my second mother. From reading fairy tales to walking me to school, she had always been there, watching over me with a love that made me feel safe and cherished. As I grew up, she became a friend, and even when I introduced her to my fiancé, she took him aside for a talk, insisting she had to “make sure he was right for me.” They spoke in hushed tones for nearly an hour, and afterward, he only said he had made a promise to her—one he couldn’t share. I always assumed it was just her way of protecting me, even after she was gone.
Then, one evening, shortly before her passing, she asked something peculiar of me. She took my hand, her voice barely above a whisper, and said, “Promise me, a year from now, you’ll go to my grave and clean the photo on my headstone.” I laughed nervously, telling her not to speak that way, but she held firm. “Promise me,” she repeated, her eyes intense. And so, I did.
That night, she quietly passed away, leaving a void that nothing could fill. As the year moved forward, I kept myself busy, yet her request weighed on me. When the day finally arrived, I felt a strange sense of duty mixed with sadness. With a small toolkit, some cloths, and a heart full of memories, I made my way to her grave to fulfill my promise.
The cemetery was quiet as I approached her headstone, a gentle wind rustling through the trees. Her photo was still there, but it looked weathered, like it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. As I unscrewed the photograph frame, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off. The screws came out more easily than I expected, and soon the frame loosened in my hands.
But the moment I removed it, I gasped, stumbling backward in shock. Underneath her photograph was another photo—hidden, tucked away, and left to be discovered only by me. My hands shook as I looked at the picture, my mind reeling.
It was a photograph of me and my fiancé from the night we got engaged. But what stunned me the most was the date scribbled on the back—it was from before we even met. My grandmother had somehow gotten this photo printed and dated as if she had known about our engagement before we did. A shiver ran through me as I struggled to understand how this was possible.
In the weeks that followed, I tried to uncover more about that hidden photo, questioning family members and even looking through her belongings. But there were no answers, only that quiet message she had left behind, her way of telling me she’d always be there, guiding me and watching over my life—even in ways I couldn’t understand.