My grandmother’s last words were a cryptic, desperate command. As I sat by her bedside in the sterile quiet of the hospital room, she gripped my hand with a surprising strength, her eyes locking onto mine. “Look behind the frames,” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp before she was gone.
I thought she was hallucinating, her mind clouded by the medication and the encroaching end. But that same night, alone in the echoing silence of her old house, a house filled with memories of the only kindness I had ever known, I obeyed.
