At the shop, I told the man, “I need to sell these.”
He examined one earring—and suddenly, his hands started trembling. The room fell silent.
“Where did you get these?” he asked.
“My grandmother,” I replied.
When I told him her name, he froze. Then he pulled out an old photograph. My heart skipped.
It was her—young, smiling in a way I had never seen. And standing beside her… was him.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“My name is Walter,” he said. “And I’ve been waiting a long time for someone from her family to walk through that door.”
He pointed to a tiny mark on the clasp—a stamped “W.”
“I made those earrings for her,” he said quietly. “By hand.”
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