“Are you ready, Grandpa?” she asked, looking up at the elderly man leaning against his pillows.
Grandpa Walter’s clouded eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Always ready for an adventure, my little bookworm. I used to read to you, and now you read to me.”
“And I love doing it, Grandpa.” Sophie grinned.
At 12 years old, reading to her grandfather was one of her favorite things. While her parents worked long hours, she spent her afternoons with Grandpa Walter, just as she had since she was small enough to sit on his lap. Back then, it had been his voice that brought stories to life. But after losing his sight four years ago, their roles had reversed. Now, Sophie was the storyteller.
She flipped open the book, finding the exact spot where they had left off. “You know, Grandpa,” she said thoughtfully, “Dantès planned his revenge for years… but in the end, he let some of them go. Some people never even said sorry. Doesn’t that seem unfair?”
Grandpa Walter considered her words. “Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? He thought revenge would bring him peace, but in the end, it was forgiveness that set him free.” He sighed, his voice tinged with something deeper. “It’s a lesson that took me a long time to learn.”
Sophie tilted her head. “What do you mean, Grandpa?”
Walter’s expression became distant. Then, shaking off his thoughts, he forced a smile. “Sophie, I think we’ve read The Count of Monte Cristo a few too many times. Why don’t we find something new? Check the closet. I believe there are some books we haven’t explored yet.”
Excited, Sophie hopped off the bed and pulled open the closet door. Inside, boxes labeled in her late grandmother’s neat handwriting were stacked neatly. As she shifted a box of winter clothes, something caught her eye—a book with a faded red cover wedged between two shoeboxes, dust coating its surface.
She carefully pulled it free and blew away the dust, revealing gold lettering that had mostly worn away.
“Did you find something?” Grandpa Walter asked.
“A book I’ve never seen before,” she replied, settling back on the bed. “The cover’s red, but it’s really old and faded. Can’t read the title anymore.”
She placed it in his waiting hands. His fingers moved over the cover, tracing its embossed patterns. Then, his face changed—his mouth tightened, and his brows furrowed deeply.
“Grandpa? Do you know this book?”
Walter’s hands trembled slightly. “I never read this one,” he said softly. “It was a gift from my first love, sixty years ago… but I couldn’t bear to open it.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Your first love? Before Grandma?”
“Yes. Long before I met your grandmother.” He ran his fingers along the book’s spine. “Her name was Margaret.”
“Can I read it to you now?” Sophie asked, curiosity burning inside her.
Walter hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I suppose… it’s time.”
Carefully, Sophie opened the book. The pages were yellowed but intact, the words still clear. “It’s called Whispers in the Garden,” she read from the title page.
As she began reading, the story unfolded—a tale of two young lovers separated by circumstances, their longing captured in beautiful prose. Grandpa Walter listened in silence, his face unreadable.
An hour passed. Then, as Sophie turned a page, something unexpected happened.
A folded letter slipped out from between the pages and landed in her lap.
She gasped. “Grandpa! There’s a letter inside this book!”
“That… that can’t be.” His brows knit in confusion. “A letter? Please… open it and read it to me, Sophie.”
Sophie carefully broke the seal and unfolded the brittle paper. The handwriting was elegant, slanting slightly to the right. She took a deep breath and began to read:
“My dearest Walter,
I hope you can forgive me for being such a coward, for not telling you the whole truth when I left you. I couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes.
When I said I was leaving for school in New York, that was only half the story. The doctors had already told me that I was losing my sight, and nothing could stop it.
I couldn’t let you tie your future to someone who would only hold you back. So I walked away before you could see me fade. I told myself it was love that made me leave, and perhaps it was—a selfish kind of love that couldn’t face watching you sacrifice your dreams for me.
I’ve thought of you every day since. I wonder if you still read those poetry books we loved and if you still walk in the park where we first met. I wonder if you hate me now.
I’m sorry, Walter. Not for loving you, but for not being brave enough to love you honestly.
Forever yours, Margaret.”
Sophie’s voice trembled as she finished reading. Grandpa Walter was silent for a long time. Then his shoulders began to shake. He was crying… not just for what was lost, but for what he never knew.
“She was going blind,” he whispered. “All these years, I thought she found someone else. Someone better.”
Sophie reached for his hand. “I’m so sorry, Grandpa.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Sixty years,” he murmured. “Sixty years believing a lie.”
Sophie swallowed hard. “There’s a return address on the letter, Grandpa.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Maybe… maybe we can find Margaret.”
Walter let out a shaky breath. “After all these years? I don’t know, Sophie.”
That evening, when her parents picked her up, Sophie told them everything. Her father hesitated but eventually agreed to check the address.
To their surprise, a woman in her late 30s answered the door. “Margaret?” Sophie asked hopefully.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Margaret is my aunt,” she said. “She lives in a care facility now.”
That weekend, Sophie and her family took Grandpa Walter to see her. As they entered the sunlit common room, an elderly woman sat by the window, listening to classical music.
Walter’s hands trembled as he reached forward. “Margaret?”
She turned, gasping. “Walter?”
Tears filled their sightless eyes as their hands found each other, old love rekindled in an instant. They spoke for hours, catching up on a lifetime of missed moments.
Later, as Sophie watched them sit together, their hands intertwined, Grandpa Walter smiled at her. “You know what’s magical about this story?”
She shook her head.
“The fact that neither of us knows what the other looks like now. That’s why we ‘see’ each other as eighteen-year-olds.”
Sophie realized then what her grandfather had been trying to teach her all along—some love stories never truly end. They simply wait for the right moment to begin again.
