No radio. No humming.
No clatter in the kitchen.
“Grandma?” I called.
Nothing.
Her bedroom door was half open.
She was lying on top of the covers, work clothes still on, shoes still tied.
Her hand was cool when I touched it.
“Grandma?” I whispered.
She didn’t move.
People said “heart attack,” and “quick,” and “she didn’t feel a thing.”
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