Emma looked at his hand.
“I think he likes it.”
“I think so too.”
She smiled.
Then she did something she had not done since she was very small.
She lifted his hand carefully and pressed it against her cheek.
“That’s okay, Grandpa,” she whispered.
Her mother watched.
Emma continued, speaking as though she were explaining the rules of a game.
“You don’t have to find my room tonight.”
Karl’s hand rested lightly against her face.
“I found yours.”
Anna reached across and smoothed her daughter’s hair.
Outside, the rain continued.
They stayed another few minutes.
Then Anna helped Emma down from the chair and carried the pillow back to her bedroom.
Before leaving, Emma turned at the door.
“Three knocks tomorrow.”
Anna smiled.
“Three knocks tomorrow.”
Karl lived through the winter.
Some days were comfortable. Others were difficult, and his family relied increasingly on professional support to make sure he was cared for with dignity.
His speech became very limited.
There were weeks when he scarcely opened his eyes during Emma’s visits.
But the family continued including him in ordinary life where possible.
At Christmas, they placed a small tree in his room.
Emma made paper decorations shaped like houses.
One had a red door.
Another had a white line running along the bottom.
She hung them carefully, explaining each design.
Karl watched for a few minutes.
Then his eyes closed.
Emma continued decorating.
On Christmas morning, she brought him a card.
Inside, she had written:
To Grandpa. Thank you for teaching me how to find my way.
Anna helped her read it aloud.
Matthias stood beside the bed.
He had spent months worrying about what his father could no longer do, what he could no longer remember, and what he had lost.
Looking at the card, he realised that Emma was remembering a different part of Karl.
She remembered the man who taught her to draw straight lines.
The man who bought pretzels by the river.
The man who explained bridges, corrected her measurements, and treated her wooden castles as serious architectural projects.
The illness had changed Karl.
But it had not erased the years in which he had been her grandfather.
Matthias sat beside the bed.
He took his father’s hand.
“Dad, Emma made you something.”
Karl’s eyes remained closed.
Matthias read the card.
Then he looked at his daughter.
“That’s beautiful, sweetheart.”
Emma smiled.
“Grandpa taught me.”
The following spring, the family decided to renovate part of the hallway.
The old wooden floor had become uneven in places, and several boards needed repair.
Matthias arranged for the work to be done.
Before the workers arrived, he removed the remaining floor markers.
Emma watched from the landing.
“Are you taking away Grandpa’s road?”
Matthias looked up.
“Yes, sweetheart. We don’t need the markers here anymore.”
She came downstairs.
For a moment, she looked upset.
“But he made it.”
Matthias put down the last marker.
“He helped us understand what he needed.”
Emma stared at the floor.
The old chalk had disappeared months earlier.
There was nothing left of the white line.
She crouched and touched the wood.
“Will you forget where it was?”
Matthias knelt beside her.
“No.”
“Promise?”
He looked at his daughter.
Then he took out his phone.
“Let’s take a photograph of the hallway.”
Emma shook her head.
“There’s nothing there.”
He considered this.
Then he smiled.
“You’re right.”
They went to Karl’s study.
On the shelf stood a folder filled with Emma’s drawings.
Matthias opened it.
Inside were the plans they had made together: the whale-shaped library, the hedgehog railway station, the castle with no doors, and the little house with a white line leading between two rooms.
Emma picked up the last drawing.
“That’s it.”
Matthias studied it.
The lines were crooked.
The windows were different sizes.
The roof was far too large.
But the white path was clear.
He smiled.
“Yes.”
Emma held the drawing against her chest.
“We don’t need the chalk on the floor.”
Matthias looked at her.
“No?”
She shook her head.
“We have the map.”
On Karl’s eighty-sixth birthday, the family gathered in his room.
There was a small cake for everyone else, fresh flowers on the windowsill, and a photograph of Karl and Ingrid taken many years earlier.
Emma had made a paper crown.
She placed it on the bedside table because Anna explained that Grandpa might find it uncomfortable to wear.
They sang quietly.
Karl opened his eyes during the song.
For a moment, he looked toward the voices.
Emma stood beside Matthias.
She smiled.
“Happy birthday, Grandpa.”
His gaze rested on her.
She waited.
There was no clear sign that he knew whose birthday they were celebrating or who stood beside his bed.
Then his mouth moved slightly.
Emma leaned forward.
“What?”
He made a quiet sound.
She listened carefully.
It might have been her name.
It might have been something else.
Anna gently reminded her that Grandpa sometimes found words difficult.
Emma nodded.
She did not seem disappointed.
She took his hand.
“That’s okay.”
Then she pointed toward the window.
“Look, Grandpa. The sun’s out.”
It was.
After several days of rain, sunlight had broken through the clouds and reached the garden.
The roses were beginning to grow again.
Emma described them for him.
She told him that Matthias had been pruning them and that Anna said he was doing it incorrectly.
Karl’s mouth curved faintly.
Matthias laughed.
“Your grandfather would agree.”
Emma grinned.
For a few minutes, the room felt almost like the afternoons they had spent in the study.
