He says it’s for “routine.” That the city noise calms him.

But we don’t live near that plaza anymore. We left after the fire. After the bakery shut down. After what happened to Aunt Talia.

Still, every Tuesday at noon, he takes the 38-minute bus ride back here. Same bench. Same meal. He won’t let anyone come with him.

Today, I followed him.

He didn’t see me at first—he was too busy talking. Not to anyone near him. To the empty space on the bench next to him.

And then he did something I can’t stop thinking about. He opened the brown paper bag, took out a second sandwich, and placed it carefully beside him. Then he pulled out a juice bottle.

The same brand Aunt Talia used to drink.

He twisted the cap, set it upright next to the sandwich, and said: “You were right about the phone. I finally opened it.”

He paused.

Then he nodded.

My heart stilled. I don’t know why I felt it so deeply, but his words hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. I stood there, half-hidden behind a tree, watching him. It wasn’t the sandwich. It wasn’t the juice. It wasn’t even the empty space beside him.

It was the way he spoke, as if someone was sitting there with him, as if that sandwich and juice weren’t just for him.

He talked again, softly, more to the empty space than to himself. “I don’t know why I waited so long. Maybe I was scared. But you were right, Talia. It’s time.”

The words burned through me. Talia? Was he talking to Aunt Talia? She had died nearly two years ago in the fire. That’s why we moved. That’s why things had been different ever since. She had been the glue holding the family together, and when she was gone, it felt like everything fell apart. But now, hearing my grandfather speak like that, I was torn between confusion and something else, something I couldn’t quite place.

I wanted to ask him, to confront him, to demand why he was still holding on to all of this. But I couldn’t bring myself to approach him. I didn’t want to disrupt the fragile moment that seemed to hang in the air between us.

So I stayed hidden, watching him in silence. He kept talking. He told her about his day, about the news he’d heard on the bus, about the weather, as if she were sitting there beside him, listening intently.

He finished his sandwich, wiping his hands on his pants, and looked down at the juice bottle. His eyes softened, and for a moment, I could see the young man he used to be before all the loss, before the fire, before the silence that had settled in our family. He reached out and touched the bottle, almost reverently.

“I’m sorry, Talia,” he whispered. “I know you wanted me to be strong. But I’m not. Not without you.”

His voice cracked, and I felt it like a punch to the gut. My grandfather, the man who had always seemed invincible, had been broken. And I had never seen it.

I don’t know how long I stood there, lost in my own thoughts, but eventually, he gathered his things, put the sandwich bag and juice bottle back into his bag, and stood up. He didn’t look around, didn’t see me watching him from the tree. He simply turned and walked away.

I waited a moment before following him, unsure of what I was even hoping to accomplish. Part of me wanted to confront him, to make him understand that the past needed to be left behind, that we needed to move forward. But another part of me understood why he couldn’t. Why he still clung to those routines, those rituals, those memories.

He got back on the bus like he always did, sitting in his usual spot. He didn’t acknowledge me as I climbed onto the same bus, taking a seat in the row behind him. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen, what I had overheard. What did it all mean?

The next few days passed in a blur. I tried to forget what had happened, tried to push the image of my grandfather talking to an empty bench out of my mind. But every time I closed my eyes, it came back to me. His voice. The sadness in his eyes. The way he had spoken to Aunt Talia as if she were still alive.

I spent the entire week avoiding him, not wanting to face the uncomfortable truth that I had witnessed something so personal, so raw. But on the following Tuesday, I found myself at the bus stop once again, waiting for him to appear. It was like I couldn’t stay away. It wasn’t about the lunch, or the bench, or even the routine. It was about him. About understanding what had been left unsaid.

When he arrived at the bus stop, I hesitated for a moment before walking toward him. He didn’t see me right away. He was looking down at the pavement, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

I took a deep breath and said his name.

“Grandpa?”

He looked up at me, his face softening when he saw me standing there. “Ah, it’s you,” he said quietly, his voice more subdued than I had ever heard it. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, but once they were out, I couldn’t stop them. “I saw you last Tuesday. At the plaza. With the sandwich and the juice.”

He didn’t react at first. He simply nodded slowly, as if he had been expecting this moment. “I see,” he said softly. “And what did you think?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” I admitted. “It was just… I don’t understand why you still go there. Why you still talk to her like that.”

He didn’t get angry, didn’t seem defensive. Instead, he sighed deeply, his eyes distant. “I guess it’s hard for you to understand. But I do it because I don’t know how to let go. I don’t know how to stop missing her.”

The words were simple, but they carried more weight than anything I had ever heard him say. My heart ached for him, for the pain he had carried alone all this time. I had never seen him like this—vulnerable, raw, honest.

“I don’t want to let go either,” I said softly. “But it’s been two years. You can’t keep holding on to her memory like this. It’s not healthy.”

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine as if he were trying to decide whether to believe me or not. Then, slowly, he spoke again. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I haven’t thought about it every day since she died? I wish I could let go. But every time I think about doing it, I hear her voice, telling me not to. She used to say that routine was important, that it gave you something to hold on to when everything else was falling apart.”

I didn’t know how to respond. The words were too big, too heavy for me to process all at once. But in that moment, something shifted between us. I didn’t have all the answers, and I didn’t expect him to either. But I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to leave him alone in this anymore.

“I’ll come with you next Tuesday,” I said, my voice stronger now. “I’ll sit with you on the bench. And we can talk about whatever you want.”

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes softening. “You don’t have to, you know. I’m fine on my own.”

“I know you are,” I said. “But you don’t have to be alone. Not anymore.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just reached out, placing his hand on my shoulder in a way that felt like a promise. A promise that, no matter how hard things got, we would face them together.

The next Tuesday, we sat on that bench, side by side. The city noise wasn’t as loud as I remembered it. It didn’t feel so overwhelming anymore. We didn’t talk much. But just being there, together, felt like enough.

And that was the beginning of something. A new routine. One that wasn’t about holding on to the past, but about building something new, even if it was just one small moment at a time.

Sometimes, the hardest thing is letting go. But sometimes, we don’t have to let go all at once. We can take it one step, one moment, at a time.

And sometimes, the people we love just need to know that they don’t have to be alone in their pain. That’s when healing begins.

If you’ve ever found yourself struggling to let go of the past, remember that it’s okay to take your time. You don’t have to do it all at once. And you don’t have to do it alone.