Samuel appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his cardigan misbuttoned. His eyes were clouded with sleep and something else… a faint confusion.

“Hazel?” he asked.

“Yes, Grandpa.” She smiled. “Come sit. I made oatmeal with honey. Your favorite.”

His expression brightened as though she had told him the sun had risen directly for him.

“Oh! Honey oatmeal,” he murmured. “My mother used to make that.”

Hazel pretended she hadn’t heard that same sentence almost every morning for three months.

He sank slowly into the chair—carefully, painfully. She guided his trembling hands around the spoon.

“Thank you, sunshine,” he said. “You always take good care of me.”

The words warmed her, even though she had heard them many times before. They reminded her she was doing the right thing—even on the days she wasn’t so sure.

 The Letter From the City

Hazel was sweeping the kitchen floor when she heard the mailman’s bicycle stop outside.

“Mail for the Willowmeres!” he shouted cheerfully.

Hazel opened the door to find a stack of envelopes—and on top of them, one with a gold-trimmed border.

The sight made her stomach twist.

Her mother wrote letters like this. Thick envelopes. Neat calligraphy. Perfume that clung to the paper like expectation.

She carried the letters inside and opened the one from the city.

Hazel, dear,
We need to talk seriously about your future…

Her heartbeat quickened.

…we’ve found a place for you at Windshore Academy, one of the best schools in the district…

Her chest tightened.

…you’re thirteen now, Hazel. You shouldn’t be acting as a caregiver. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t right…

She swallowed.

…we will come pick you up at the end of the month. This is final.
Love,
Mom & Dad

Hazel crumpled the letter slightly in her hand before smoothing it back out. Her mind spun. Her stomach churned.

Her grandfather shuffled in a minute later.

“Who was at the door?” he asked.

“Just the mailman,” Hazel murmured, folding the letter carefully so he wouldn’t see her trembling fingers.

She didn’t tell him what it said.

She couldn’t.

Not yet.

 The First Cracks

That afternoon, Hazel found Samuel standing outside the cottage, staring blankly at the river.

“Grandpa? Are you okay?” she asked.

He blinked slowly. “The river… it sounds different today.”

Hazel stepped closer. “Different how?”

“It sounds like it’s calling someone,” he whispered.

A chill crawled up her spine. She tried to laugh it off.

“It’s just the wind, Grandpa.”

But he didn’t answer. He kept staring at the water, his brows furrowed in a way that tugged at her heart.

That night, he forgot her name again.

He called her “Marigold”—his late wife.

Hazel tucked him into bed, forcing a smile.

“It’s okay, Grandpa. I’m right here.”

When she returned to her own room, she pressed a pillow over her face so he wouldn’t hear her cry.

 A Visit From the Past

Three days later, her parents arrived unannounced.

Their car—a sleek silver sedan—looked painfully out of place in front of the mossy cottage.

Lucy stepped out first, her heels sinking into the dirt. She looked around with a pinched expression.

Daniel followed, adjusting his expensive watch.

Hazel opened the door before they could knock.

“Hazel!” her mother exclaimed. “Sweetheart, look at you. You’ve gotten so tall.”

Her father cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

Hazel stood firm. “Grandpa’s resting. Keep your voices down.”

Her parents exchanged a look. The same look they always gave each other when Hazel became “difficult.”

Inside, the conversation erupted quickly.

“You’re thirteen,” her father said. “You should be in school, not acting like a nurse.”

“This isn’t your responsibility,” her mother added. “There are facilities—”

“No,” Hazel snapped, louder than she meant. “He’s not going to a facility.”

“Honey,” her mother said gently, “he needs professional care.”

“He needs me,” Hazel replied, her voice shaking.

Her mother sighed. “Hazel… you can’t pause your whole life for him.”

Hazel lifted her chin.

“I’m not pausing my life,” she whispered. “This is my life.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

Finally, her father spoke.

“We’re taking you home at the end of the month.”

Hazel’s breath caught.

“No,” she whispered. “You can’t make me.”

Her mother reached out to touch her shoulder.

“We’re doing what’s best for you.”

Hazel stepped back as though the touch had burned her.

“No,” she said again. “You’re just doing what’s easiest for you.”

Her parents left shortly afterward, frustration simmering beneath their tidy smiles.

As their car disappeared down the dirt road, Hazel felt her throat tighten until she could barely breathe.

 A Slow, Steady Fall

The next two weeks slipped through Hazel’s fingers like grains of sand.

Her grandfather’s condition worsened faster than she had expected.

He began waking in the middle of the night, confused and frightened. He forgot how to tie his shoes. He forgot where the bathroom was. Once, he wandered outside at dawn and Hazel found him shivering near the riverbank, barefoot.

She held him tightly that morning, tears burning behind her eyes.

“Grandpa, you scared me,” she whispered.

“I… I couldn’t find the door,” he murmured. “Everything looked different.”

She hugged him harder.

She didn’t sleep much after that.

Every night, she kept her door open, listening for his footsteps. Every morning, she checked on him before brushing her hair or washing her face.

She grew tired—bone tired.

But she didn’t stop.

 The Breaking Point

It happened on a stormy afternoon.

Thunder rumbled across the valley. Rain slammed against the cottage roof. Hazel was in the kitchen pouring tea when she heard a thump—sharp, heavy, frightening.

“Grandpa?”

No answer.

She rushed into the living room and froze.

Samuel was lying on the floor beside his chair, his hand clutching his chest, his breathing shallow and rapid.

“Grandpa!” Hazel dropped to her knees. “Talk to me. Please.”