For several minutes, she could think only of the last thing her grandmother had asked.
Are you happy there?
Hannah closed her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered.
There was no one beside her to hear it.
The funeral took place in Graz on a cold October afternoon.
Greta had requested a simple service.
Pieter wanted flowers.
Claudia wanted music.
Martin wanted to speak.
They compromised on all three.
The room was filled with people Hannah had not expected to see.
Former neighbours.
Women for whom Greta had altered dresses.
A retired tram driver who had known Franz.
A shopkeeper from the market.
Several older people who remembered Greta helping them during difficult periods.
Hannah stood beside her parents, listening to the stories.
One woman described how Greta had repaired a wedding dress at no charge when her daughter could not afford alterations.
Another recalled that Greta regularly brought groceries to an elderly neighbour.
A third said that Greta had spent years quietly helping organise donated clothing for families who needed it.
Hannah listened in disbelief.
Her grandmother had complained about leaving lights on.
She had washed plastic containers until they fell apart.
She had refused expensive birthday presents.
But she had given her time freely.
And when somebody genuinely needed help, she had apparently found ways to give it.
Hannah thought about the old metal box.
For the first time, she understood that Greta had not simply loved saving money.
She had wanted money to be available when it mattered.
At the end of the service, Hannah stood beside the grave while people began to leave.
Pieter approached.
“Are you ready?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
He nodded.
“I’ll be over there.”
Hannah waited until the others had moved away.
Then she crouched beside the flowers.
“Grandma?”
Her voice was barely audible.
She felt foolish speaking into the cold air.
But she continued.
“I bought a winter coat.”
She swallowed.
“It was on sale.”
A small, painful smile crossed her face.
“You’d have liked that.”
Then she began crying.
She stayed there until her father returned.
After the funeral, the family sorted Greta’s belongings.
The apartment seemed unfamiliar without her.
The kitchen clock still ticked.
The tram still passed outside.
The jars remained lined up in the cupboard.
But the place no longer had the particular sense of order that came from Greta’s presence.
Hannah helped Claudia fold clothes.
She kept finding small things that reminded her of arguments.
A bundle of old newspapers.
A collection of envelopes.
A drawer full of buttons.
A neatly repaired cardigan.
For years, she had viewed these things as evidence of stinginess.
Now they looked different.
Not sacred.
Not necessarily wise in every instance.
Some of Greta’s habits had been inconvenient, and some had gone too far.
Her reluctance to seek timely medical attention had frightened the family and complicated her care.
Hannah did not want to turn every choice into proof of virtue.
But she could see that her grandmother’s life had been shaped by experiences Hannah had never shared.
Scarcity.
Responsibility.
Widowhood.
The need to remain independent.
And the conviction that money, however little there was, ought to serve a purpose.
One afternoon, Claudia found Hannah sitting beside Greta’s bed.
The old biscuit tin was open on her lap.
Most of the savings documents had been removed after the university arrangements were made.
A few coins remained.
There were old receipts, a folded bank envelope, and a small cloth pouch.
Hannah ran her fingers along the rusted corner.
“Can I take this?”
Claudia nodded.
“Of course.”
Hannah looked down.
“I used to think she kept it because she loved money.”
Her mother sat beside her.
“She did like knowing what she had.”
“But it wasn’t just that.”
“No.”
Claudia touched the lid.
“When we were young, your grandmother used to say that the worst thing about not having money wasn’t missing out on nice things.”
Hannah looked up.
“What was it?”
“Having someone else make your choices for you.”
Hannah thought about Vienna.
About the acceptance letter.
About her father sitting at the kitchen table with figures he could not make work.
About Greta arriving with the tin.
She nodded slowly.
“I think I understand.”
Claudia smiled sadly.
“I think you do.”
Hannah returned to Vienna after the funeral.
For the first few days, she struggled to concentrate.
She attended classes.
She submitted work.
She spoke when necessary.
But she felt as though part of her attention remained permanently elsewhere.
Her grandmother was absent from the ordinary structure of her week.
There would be no Sunday telephone call.
No questions about groceries.
No reminders to check the windows before winter.
No small voice on the other end of the line asking whether she had eaten.
Hannah kept reaching for her phone.
Then remembering.
One evening, after a long day in the studio, she returned to her room and found the old biscuit tin beneath her desk.
She had brought it back from Graz but had not opened it since.
She sat on the floor.
Outside, rain tapped against the window.
She lifted the lid.
The metal hinges made a soft scraping sound.
Inside were the remaining coins and scraps of paper.
She removed them one by one.
Then she noticed that the bottom of the tin was lined with a piece of faded blue fabric.
It was loose at one corner.
Hannah lifted it.
Underneath lay a small photograph.
She picked it up.
It showed a newborn baby wrapped in a white blanket, face scrunched, one tiny hand lifted beside her cheek.
Hannah recognised the photograph.
She had seen another copy in her parents’ album.
It had been taken on the day she was born.
But this copy was worn at the corners.
The surface was scratched.
It looked as though someone had taken it out and examined it many times.
