He spoke nothing during the funeral. He gripped her picture tightly and nodded at everybody like he was frightened he’d break apart if he stopped. That first week, we took turns bringing over food and offered to spend the night, but he never asked. Just kept repeating, “I’m alright, kiddo.”
One day, he vanished.
Weeks turned into months. We searched the woods behind the house, checked old haunts, and even filed a report, but no trace of him was ever found. It was as if the earth had gently opened and taken him in.
Then one late autumn afternoon, a hunter stumbled across the cabin. Hidden deep in the trees, worn but sturdy, it was a place few even remembered. And there he was—Grandpa. Sitting on the porch, a hand-carved rocking chair creaking under him, a picture of Grandma resting on his lap. His beard was longer, his body thinner, but there was a peace in his eyes we hadn’t seen since she left.
Inside the cabin, there were small touches of her everywhere: the quilt she made, draped over the bed; her old teacup set by the window; a faded book of poems, marked at her favorite page. It was as if he had built a small world where they still lived together, just beyond reach.
He never spoke much when we found him. Just smiled, tapped the photo, and said, “This is home now.”
And somehow, we understood.
We still bring supplies now and then—blankets, canned goods, new boots when the snow starts to fall. But mostly, we leave him be, honoring the quiet, sacred space he made. A place where love didn’t end—it simply changed shape.
Some goodbyes aren’t meant to be rushed. Some hearts need a different kind of healing.
And Grandpa found his.