"This is incredible," I mutter as I flip through the album with all the magazine clippings of my grandfather's garden over the years. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Oh, since I was in my twenties," he replies, his voice slightly muffled inside the small cupboard where the VCR is sitting. "When we bought this place, the yard was awful. But I always loved gardening. Something about growing something out of nothing... loved it since I was a kid. So when we bought the house, I just poured my heart and soul into it. Worked on it for most of my life. Goddamnit, Ginny, are you sure you don't know where the remote is for this thing?"

"No, love," she replies as she sits beside me on the couch, flipping to the next page of the album and smiling. "Just put the tape in and hit play on the machine. You've done it before."

He groans as he struggles to sit up with his bad knee. "I'll just sit here until I find the clip. Should be toward the end, if I recall. Give me just a few minutes here." He holds the fast forward button on the VCR, and I watch as blurred images of interviews and gardens fly by on the screen.

"You know," I say, smiling slightly at the thought, "I don't think I've ever used a VCR in my life."

"Really?" my grandmother asks, and I nod my head.

"Barely even used a DVD player," I reply, flipping to the next page in the album. "We've had streaming since before I can remember. Netflix and Prime. I mean, we don't watch a whole lot of movies or shows, but when we do, we just find them online. Takes two minutes. And we don't have to worry about rewinding or fast forwarding. At least not like this."

My grandmother shrugs her shoulders. "We aren't well acquainted with technology. Hardly even use these things. We really only keep them so your papa can watch this video again and again." She gives him a pointed look as he shoots a playful glare at her from the floor before turning back toward the TV.

"Do you...," I hesitate for a second, contemplating on whether or not I should even ask this question. "Do you want me to show you how to use it? I can get you set up with Netflix and Hulu and stuff if you want."

My grandmother smiles at me. "That's very kind of you, dear," she says. "But we wouldn't use it even if you did. Like I said, we barely watch television. I didn't have one growing up, and neither did your papa. Occasionally we'll settle down to watch a movie, but it's usually something we've seen before."

"Something your granny can fall asleep to," my grandfather says from the floor. Before my grandmother can respond, he shouts out, "Aha! Here we go! Found it!" My grandma and I look up at the TV as he hits play. On the screen is a young woman who looks to be about in her early to mid-twenties wearing a black shirt and a white blouse. She's holding a microphone in her hand as a light breeze blows her light brown hair about her pale face.

"And here, we have the garden of the famous Peter Higginson," she says as she brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes and turns toward a much younger version of her grandfather. "A longtime resident of Surrey, he spends his free hours working in his beautiful yard. Peter, tell me, how long have you been tending to this same garden? How many years?"

The younger version of my grandfather gives her a polite smile and says, "Over a decade now, I suppose. This was the house my wife and I bought to raise our son. When we first moved in, there was nothing here, if you can believe it." He hands her a picture of what I assume is the house as it was when he bought it. "See there? Nothing. Not even a rosebush. I couldn't stand for it. I've always loved gardens, see. When I was a boy, I helped my mother tend to her garden. Now, hers was a bit smaller than what I've got here." He chuckles to himself, as if enjoying a private joke. "Guess you can say I'm a bit obsessive with it."

The interview grins. "I'm sure there are worse things to be obsessed about," she replies, and he nods his head. "What does your family think about your garden?"

"Oh, my wife, Ginny, loves it," he answers, standing tall and proud. It's weird to see him without his walking stick. "My son is a bit indifferent toward it. But he's only a boy. He's got other priorities. But when he was younger, he enjoyed playing in it. Getting lost in the flower beds. Falling asleep in the grass."

"Sounds absolutely idyllic," the interviewer says, and my grandfather beams with pride. It goes on for a couple minutes, but it's not very long. There are several more gardens that are featured in this little piece, so there's not too much time to focus on one specific guest. But we watch the rest of it as well, my grandfather finally getting up off the floor to join us on the couch. We chat a little as the rest of the video plays in the background.

And then something shifts in the tape. The garden piece if over, but something else has taken it's place. It's a video of the same room we're sitting in right now, only filled to the brim with balloons. Children about the age of ten years old are all throwing the balloons up in the air and trying to catch them. The camera angle shifts, and it's focused on a young boy with a birthday hat on his head and a little pin saying Birthday Boy attached to his blue t-shirt.

"Say hullo to the camera, Jackie," a woman's voice says.

He gives her a toothy grin as he waves and says, "Hullo the camera, Jackie!" The woman giggles a little and shakes her head, thereby shaking the camera just a bit more. "Mum, when can open presents? Freddie says he got me some Pokémon cards, and I want to see if there's a holographic Mr. Mime in them."

Oh God. "Turn it off," I say, my voice quivering a bit. My grandparents are sitting frozen on the couch, their mouths open in what looks to be a combination of horror and wonder. "Turn it off!" They don't move, so I jump to my feet and hit the stop button on the player. My breathing is coming out ragged, and my heart is racing so quickly that it feels like I just ran a mile. "Are you for real right now?" I ask, my voice loud as my grandparents continue to sit on the couch, staring up at me with horrorstruck eyes. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

"Summer, no," my grandmother says finally, tears welling up in her eyes. Her blue eyes. Eyes like mine. Eyes like his. "No, of course not. I didn't even know there was anything... I thought the rest of the tape was blank."

"Sure," I snap. "Sure you did." She winces as she averts her eyes in shame. "All day it's been like this! I didn't come here to talk about him. I came here to... to...." To what? Why did I come here? Tears are burning my eyes like acid, and I suddenly feel like I'm going to be sick. "I'm going to my room." His room, I think to myself, but I shake my head quickly, forcing the thought out of my mind as I storm out of the sitting room, down the hall, and back to the bedroom I'm staying in. They don't say a word to stop me, which is probably for the best. I can't stand to look at them right now. I'm too angry. Too hurt that they keep pushing all this on me.

I collapse on the bed, my phone sitting on the nightstand where I left it earlier today. Tears threatening to fall, I reach for it and pull up the notifications. My eyes immediately fall on a message from Baker Scott. "How's it going over there?"

Sighing, I pull up the keyboard to message him back. But I keep erasing what I'm saying, because I can't think of a way to express how this feels. Finally, I press the call button and hold the phone up to my ear, hoping he'll answer. Unsurprisingly, he answers on the second ring. "Lumen!" he exclaims, his greeting loud and enthusiastic in a way that cuts almost too deep. "You're alive!"

"Barely," I reply, and I suddenly feel so exhausted. "I just want to be home. This whole thing with my grandparents was so stupid. Such a mistake."

"Why?" he asks, his voice changing from excited to concerned. "What happened? Are they assholes?"

I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. "No. They're not. Not at all. Just... they keep talking about my dad. Every conversation leads back to him, and it's... I hate talking about him, Baker. He shouldn't be anything to me. I mean, I don't think I ever met him. So," I hesitate for a second before taking a breath and asking, "why does it hurt so much?"

"I don't know," he says softly. "I'm sorry, Summer. I wish there was more I could say."

I breath out a heavy sigh as I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "It feels like he's haunting this place. Haunting me. And he has no right." I sniffle as more silent tears slide down my cheeks.

"I hate when you cry," he says.

I let off a teary laugh. "Sorry."

"Don't by," he replies. "I just wish I could... do something. Make it better. But it's so hard when you're half a world away."

"Not for much longer," I respond, trying to fight the fluttering I'm feeling in my chest at his words.

He chuckles. "You have no idea, Summer. I feel like I'm counting the hours now."

"How many left?" I ask.

"About 65," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Too long though."

"Too long," I reply. Then I sit up, look around, and sigh again. "You know, they put me in his room. His stuff is all over it too. Like they haven't even cleaned it out. It's madness. I mean, he died almost a year ago."

"Maybe they just miss him," he says. "I mean, think about it, Summer. Maybe this is less about them forcing him on you and more of them just being unable to let him go. They were his parents. You're his daughter." I scoff and roll my eyes. "Whether you like it or not, you are. And maybe you being there is just reminding them of him. Maybe they can't help it."

"I hadn't thought it about like that," I respond after a few seconds of silence. "But I guess you're probably right. I just don't know what they expect me to do about it. I can't bring him back. I can't fix it."

"I don't think they expect you to fix it," he says. "But maybe you soothe it for them. Like a balm to their souls, you know? Maybe you being there is doing some good for them."

"Meanwhile, it's doing harm to me," I groan, covering my face with my pillow to keep my eyes from looking around the bedroom anymore.

"Is it really?" he asks seriously, and I sigh. "Listen, here's my unsolicited advice for you: just listen. Be there for them. Hear what they have to say. Maybe they'll surprise you. Maybe you'll surprise yourself. I don't know. I mean, you have a couple days with them, right? So just do your best to make the most of it. You might never see them again."

He's right, and I can't tell how it makes me feel. Because as frustrated and hurt as I am about this whole thing, they have gotten under my skin a little in the short amount of time I've spent with them. And the idea that I'll never see them again when I leave somehow hurts more than this already does. Baker's right. I need to give them a chance. Try to see things from their perspective. But it's hard when I'm so lost in my own.

Author's Note:
Another one so soon? I know, I know! I've been feeling very inspired lately. Already halfway done with the next one, so I imagine you'll get it tomorrow or the next day. As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments, and I'll post the next chapter as soon as it's finished! Stay safe and healthy until then, my dears!
XOXO,
~Aly