Other times, he hesitated before saying her name.
Once, when she came home from school, he called her Ingrid.
Emma stopped.
“That’s Grandma’s name.”
Karl looked confused.
“Is it?”
Anna, who was standing nearby, gently reminded him who Emma was.
Karl looked at his granddaughter.
“I’m sorry.”
Emma considered this.
“It’s okay.”
He studied her face.
“You look like someone I know.”
Emma smiled.
“Probably me.”
Karl laughed.
Then he became serious.
“You’re a very kind girl.”
She sat beside him.
He did not seem to know exactly who she was.
But he liked having her there.
That afternoon, Anna watched them from the doorway.
Emma was drawing on paper while Karl sat beside her.
Every few minutes, she showed him another picture.
He praised each one with the same genuine interest, even when he could no longer remember seeing the previous drawing.
Anna felt the familiar urge to cry.
She resisted it.
Emma did not need her mother’s grief added to an ordinary afternoon.
Instead, Anna brought them sliced apples and biscuits.
Karl thanked her.
Emma asked whether they could have hot chocolate.
Anna agreed.
They spent the rest of the afternoon drawing.
There was one particularly good day in May.
Karl woke cheerful and asked for his old drafting pencils.
Matthias brought them to the sitting room.
Emma was home from school by early afternoon.
She found her grandfather sitting at a table with several sheets of paper.
“Grandpa!”
He looked up.
“Emma.”
She stopped.
He had said her name without hesitation.
“You’re drawing!”
“Trying to.”
She ran to the table.
“What is it?”
“A house.”
She examined the paper.
It was a simple drawing, much less detailed than the plans he used to make.
There were two rooms, a hallway, and a large window.
Emma pointed to the smallest room.
“What’s that?”
Karl smiled.
“Yours.”
She looked up.
“Mine?”
“Every good house needs a room for the people you love.”
Emma grinned.
She fetched her coloured pencils.
For nearly an hour, they worked together.
Karl drew walls.
Emma coloured windows.
He added a doorway between the rooms.
She insisted that the hallway needed a bench where people could sit to put on their shoes.
Karl agreed.
Then she drew a white line through the centre.
He examined it.
“What’s that?”
“The way home.”
Karl looked at the drawing.
He remained quiet for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“Of course.”
Emma watched him.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when we made the castle with no doors?”
He frowned.
The memory did not come.
She waited.
Then he smiled.
“Tell me.”
So she did.
She described the tower, the flying people, the red block, and the wooden figure that needed to find its way inside.
Karl listened with interest.
When she finished, he laughed.
“Flying people. Very practical.”
Emma laughed too.
She no longer needed him to remember the story to enjoy telling it.
That was something she had learned gradually.
At six, she had believed a memory was only real if two people could recall it together.
Now she understood that she could carry some of their stories for him.
Not as a duty.
Simply because she liked them.
By the beginning of summer, Karl needed more assistance with walking.
His balance had become unreliable, and he tired easily.
The family arranged suitable mobility support and adapted his daily routines.
He could no longer accompany Emma to the river as he once had.
She missed those walks.
Sometimes she asked whether he could come.
Anna explained that Grandpa needed to rest.
Emma accepted the answer, though not always happily.
One Saturday, Matthias took her to their old bench near the Elbe.
They bought pretzels from the same bakery.
Emma sat beside her father, watching the river.
“Grandpa used to tell me about the bridges.”
Matthias nodded.
“He told me about them too.”
“He said every bridge needs to carry people safely.”
“That’s right.”
Emma looked at the water.
“Can we bring him next time?”
Matthias considered the question.
“Maybe, if he’s feeling well enough and we can arrange it safely.”
She nodded.
They sat quietly.
Then Emma broke her pretzel in half and offered him the larger piece.
Matthias smiled.
“Your grandfather taught you that?”
She looked surprised.
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She grinned.
“Maybe.”
In August, Karl became less able to leave his bed.
The changes had occurred gradually, but the final decline felt sudden to Emma.
One month he had been sitting at the table drawing houses.
The next, he needed assistance with most daily activities and spent long periods resting.
His healthcare team reviewed his needs, and the family arranged appropriate nursing and supportive care.
Matthias and Anna tried to explain the changes to Emma in language she could understand.
They told her Grandpa’s illness was making many ordinary things harder, including moving around and speaking.
They emphasised that she was not responsible for making him better.
She could visit, talk, draw, and spend time with him.
But the adults and healthcare professionals would take care of his medical and physical needs.
Emma listened carefully.
Then she asked, “Can I still say goodnight?”
Anna took her hand.
“Of course.”
That evening, Emma approached Karl’s bedroom.
She knocked three times.
There was no answer.
She looked back at her mother.
Anna smiled gently.
“Come in, sweetheart.”
Emma opened the door.
Karl lay beneath a light blanket.
His eyes were open, though he appeared tired.
She walked to the bedside.
“Grandpa?”
He turned his head slightly.
“It’s Emma.”
He looked at her.
