Grandpa's quirks are endearing, in a way. But lately, I'm starting to wonder if there's more to them than just his age. He's obsessed with locking every door and window at night. Not just once, but multiple times, as if he's checking and double-checking, making sure the house is secure. He always says it's an old army habit, but I can see it in his eyes, the way they dart to the windows when he thinks I'm not looking, the flicker of unease that crosses his face.
And then there's his garden. His roses, particularly. He talks about them like they're a metaphor for life: "Patience and precision," he always says. "If you tend to them right, they'll bloom beautifully." Sometimes, I think he talks about the roses more than he talks to me. We spend hours pruning them together, the air thick with the scent of earth and flowers. But in the quiet moments, I can tell that Grandpa is carrying something heavy. Something he's not telling me. I just wish I knew what it was.