It began with a simple family group message — one that no one realized would be my grandmother’s last. Late one Wednesday night,

she wrote, “Does anyone have $60 to spare? I need it for something important.” Everyone saw it, but no one replied. Two days later,

she passed away peacefully in her sleep. When my mom called, I couldn’t stop staring at that unanswered message, overcome with guilt and sorrow.

At her apartment, we found a small box wrapped with a blue ribbon and a note with my name: “Thank you for remembering me.”

Inside were two sketchbooks and pencils — the exact set I’d wanted months earlier. With her final $60,

she’d bought them for me. Her last act wasn’t for herself but for love.

She had always believed in my dreams, even when I didn’t. At her funeral, I placed her gift beside her

photo and shared the story. The room filled with tears — a silent understanding of how deeply she’d loved.

Now, whenever I open those sketchbooks, I feel her presence guiding me. The pain of losing her has

softened into gratitude. Her story didn’t end — it became part of mine, written in every word I create.