The Summer He Never Spoke About - The Days That Followed Without a Plan - Part 3
“You didn’t talk to her… and that was it?” the boy asked, clearly unsatisfied.
Grandpa opened his eyes, a faint smile returning.
“If that was it,” he said, “I wouldn’t remember her after all these years.”
The boy leaned forward again. “Then what happened next?”
Grandpa looked toward the sky, now turning a deeper shade of blue.
“I went again the next day.”
“On Good Friday?” the boy asked.
Grandpa nodded.
“It was more crowded that day,” he said.
“People dressed simply… quietly walking in, sitting down… no one really speaking much.”
“But I wasn’t there for the prayers,” he admitted.
The boy smirked. “I knew it.”
Grandpa gave him a look—but it wasn’t strict. Just honest.
“I stood near the same place as the previous day,” he continued.
“Not because I planned it… but because something in me hoped…”
“That she would come?” the boy completed.
Grandpa didn’t answer immediately.
He didn’t need to.
“And did she?” the boy pressed.
A small nod.
“Yes.”
The boy smiled widely. “Ahh… so this is where it starts.”
Grandpa shook his head gently.
“No,” he said.
“This is where it… continued.”
“She came in just like before,” he said.
“Quietly. No hurry. No intention of being noticed.”
“But this time… I was waiting.”
The boy tilted his head. “Did she notice you then?”
Grandpa exhaled slowly.
“I think…” he paused, choosing his words carefully,
“…she almost did.”
“Almost?”
“There was a moment,” Grandpa said, his voice lowering,
“when she looked up… not directly at me… but close enough that I thought—”
He stopped.
“Thought what?” the boy asked.
“That maybe… she knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I was there for her.”
The boy let out a small laugh. “That’s a big assumption, Thatha.”
Grandpa smiled. “Yes… it is.”
“But when you’re that age,” he added,
“even a glance can feel like a conversation.”
“What was she doing?” the boy asked.
“Praying,” Grandpa said simply.
“And you?”
“…watching.”
The boy shook his head. “You were really something…”
Grandpa chuckled. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Didn’t you at least try to go near her?”
“I did,” Grandpa admitted.
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Finally!”
“But not the way you think.”
“There was a small space near where she stood,” Grandpa explained.
“I moved… slowly… pretending to look for a place.”
“And?”
“And I stood there.”
“So close?”
“Close enough to hear her breathe,” Grandpa said quietly.
The boy froze for a second.
That answer felt… different.
“Did you say anything?” he asked, softer now.
Grandpa shook his head.
“No.”
“Then what did you do?”
Grandpa smiled faintly.
“I stayed.”
The boy frowned slightly. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” Grandpa said.
“That’s all I had the courage for.”
A gentle breeze passed again.
“And when it ended,” Grandpa continued,
“people started leaving slowly.”
“I didn’t want to leave.”
“Because of her?” the boy asked.
Grandpa nodded.
“I waited… just to see which direction she would go.”
“And?”
“She walked out… and turned left,” Grandpa said.
“So you followed her?” the boy asked quickly.
Grandpa looked at him.
There was a pause.
A slightly longer one this time.
“I…” he began.
Then stopped.
The boy leaned in even closer now.
“You what?”
Grandpa smiled—but this time, there was hesitation in it.
“That,” he said slowly,
“…is where things started to change.”
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