Dear Grandpa.

I still hear your voice sometimes, soft in the quiet, a faint echo that lingers when the world goes still. But it's tangled now, with the words I can't take back-- the sharpness in my tone, the times I didn't listen, the love I failed to show. I remember how I turned away, always too busy, always somewhere else, while you sat waiting, your stories tucked inside, your questions unasked. Now your chair sits empty, and the silence is heavy. I'd give anything to sit with you again, to hear your voice, to laugh with you, to tell you I see you now-- really see you. But time doesn't bend. It doesn't forgive. It only moves forward, leaving me here with this ache in my chest, this rain on my face, and the weight of all the moments I can never get back. I hope somehow, somewhere, you can hear me say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the love I didn't give, for the time I didn't take, for the ways I let you down. I carry you with me now-- your memory, your quiet strength, the way you loved me even when I didn't deserve it. But I'd trade it all just to see you one more time, to say the words that were left unsaid.