🔴 GRANDPA LEFT ME HIS WATCH, BUT IT STILL TICKED AFTER HE DIED
I swear I felt his cold fingers on my wrist as I wound the stupid thing.
The silence in the house was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic *tick-tock, tick-tock* against the stark white walls – Mom had made it clear she wanted the place spotless before the memorial. He was gone. Just gone. I could still smell his pipe tobacco clinging to the armchair in the den.
And the watch…the old Omega he treasured. Dad said it was his to keep now, a memento. But it felt wrong. Wrong that it was still *working*, still measuring time when his time had run out. “He wanted you to have it, honey,” Mom had sniffled, her voice raw.
I sat there, the metallic chill of the watch seeping into my skin, watching the second hand sweep across the face, mocking me, when I noticed something glinting beneath the crystal. A tiny slip of paper… folded so small…
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The glint was undeniable, a tiny speck of white against the intricate gears visible just beneath the edge of the glass. My breath hitched. How could it be *inside*? I carefully brought the watch closer, squinting. It wasn’t on the face itself, but tucked right under the edge of the crystal, near the number twelve. It was a minuscule, rolled-up scroll, no bigger than a grain of rice.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Was it always there? Had Grandpa known? The thought sent a fresh wave of grief mixed with bewildering curiosity through me. I fumbled for a pin, then a pair of Mom’s delicate sewing tweezers from the nearby box. My hands trembled as I carefully worked the tip under the slight gap between the crystal and the casing. It took agonizing minutes of slow, deliberate pressure, praying I wouldn’t scratch the glass or tear the paper. Finally, with a tiny pop, the crystal seemed to lift just enough, and I managed to hook the end of the paper and coax it out.
It was even smaller than it looked, a thin, brittle slip. I set it on the table, my fingers clumsy as I tried to unroll it without tearing the fragile material. It unfolded into a rectangle perhaps a centimeter wide and two long. And written on it, in Grandpa’s familiar, slightly shaky hand, were just a few words.
*“Time keeps moving, kiddo. Don’t just track it. Live it. Love, Grandpa.”*
I stared at the message, tears blurring my vision. The cold metallic weight of the watch felt different now. The frantic, accusing *tick-tock* against the silence of the house seemed to soften, becoming less of a countdown to his absence and more of a gentle, persistent reminder. He knew. He knew time would keep going, that life would continue, painfully so, after he was gone. And instead of leaving me a static memento of the past, he’d left me a living thing, a ticking heart, carrying a message about the future.
I carefully folded the tiny note and tucked it into my pocket, feeling its fragile presence against my leg. I wound the watch again, the gears catching smoothly under my fingers, and for the first time since he’d left, the touch I felt wasn’t phantom coldness but a warm echo of his hand, urging me forward. The watch still ticked against the stark white walls, but now, it sounded less like an end, and more like a beginning.