Rain lashes onto the windows, rattling the thin glass. The embers in the fireplace have grown weaker, allowing a chill to enter the room. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, while a fine layer of dust rests upon the clock.

I recline on the sofa, lost in a world of reminiscence. As my finger traces the grainy photographs, small tears stain my cheeks.

It has only been a week, but everything has changed. I no longer sing aimlessly whilst doing the dishes, or skip down the hall to collect the post.

If I’m honest, I have stopped doing housework altogether.

Oh, if Gran could see me now. I can almost hear her voice - soft but firm - telling me that I am better than this.

But she can’t tell me. Not ever.

I miss her so much.

On my fifth birthday, my mother valiantly attempted to stuff me into a pristine white dress with puffed sleeves. Even in my youth, I was aware that I resembled a giant snowball more than I did a child.

Needless to say, the dress was stained in seconds - much to the chagrin of my poor mother.

After the incident, I braced myself for the familiar shrieks to sound. But this time, my hero appeared. Donned in a floral printed dress and pearl necklace, Gran whisked me away from the world of expectations and rules, and into her embrace. I hugged her so tight, the scent of her cherry blossom perfume lingered on me for the rest of the day.

I smiled at the photograph.

We were in the garden in front of the apple tree. Mother’s expression was one of utter resignation whilst Gran possessed a wry smile. I stood in the centre, in my brother's shorts, cake smeared across my face, looking quite satisfied indeed.

That day was a representation of the rest of my childhood. Me and Mother fought like bulls. The only thing we agreed on was that we were both as stubborn as the other. She haplessly tried to mould me into what society wanted. It wasn’t her fault. Mother just thought she was doing what was best.

Luckily, Gran knew better.

After I left for college, we spoke on the phone every evening at 8 o’clock. She heard it all: the laughs, the tears, heartbreaks, new loves. Gran was always there for me.

Until she wasn’t.

I fought back new tears, turning to look at the clock on the side table. The red numbers flashed 19:55.

Not long now.

For the past few days, my phone has been ringing at 8 o’clock, exactly. The first time I answered, I forgot Gran had passed away. For a split second, everything was normal. She would ask if I wanted any of her freshly grown vegetables. I would reply that I have no room, knowing full well that she would post them regardless the very next day.

Then I would remember. The pain was almost too much to bear.

I waited a few seconds, but no one replied so I hung up. At the time I thought I had simply imagined the call.

But the next day, the call came again.

Each time I answer, there is no reply. A small part of me thinks it might be Gran, calling from the afterlife. I always brush that off as wishful nonsense, but who else knew about our 8 o’clock phone calls?

Although I am waiting for it, I still jump a little when the telephone starts to ring. I silently chastise myself. This is probably just one of those spam callers the newsreaders always mention.

“Hello?” I ask.

For a moment, there is silence.

“Hello? Who’s there?” I ask again, slightly firmer this time.

On the other end, a faint whisper can be heard. I strain my ears and lean in closer towards the receiver.

“P...e....tal....”

What I hear is barely audible, but it immediately sends a shiver down my spine.

Petal.

Gran’s nickname for me.

I drop the telephone onto the floor and jump backwards, stumbling over some clothing. This must be some kind of sick joke.

Who would do this?

In my haste, I knock the photo album off the coffee table. A loud thump echoes through the room as a lifetime of memories tumble onto the floor. A single photograph lands away from the rest.

I crouch down and slowly pick it up.

My heart stops. It’s me and Gran, at her 70th birthday, embraced in the deepest of hugs.

Our favourite memory.

My breath quickens as I struggle to make sense of all this. It can’t be.

Can it?

Slowly, my trembling hands reach for the telephone. I quieten as the receiver touches my ear.

“Pe...ta...l.....I.....Lo....ve......You..........”

Huge sobs violently erupt from my body. I clutch the photograph to my chest, rocking back and forth. Bittersweet tears roll down my cheeks.

The room suddenly feels warmer, the rain replaced by a gentle breeze. Even the fireplace glows intensely, radiating the happiness I feel in my soul.

Parting my lips, I softly whisper.

“I love you too, Gran.”