I watched the moment she told him, and something inside his gaze dimmed in a way I had never witnessed before. It was not anger, nor sadness alone. It was absence, like a room slowly emptying of light.
The Iron Sentinels attempted to visit him in the early weeks, arriving respectfully, limiting their numbers, speaking softly despite their thunderous reputations. Mother complained to the administration, claiming their presence disrupted the environment necessary for healing.
They were banned.
Grandfather never protested, because he could not.
Last Friday, I found him crying silently, tears slipping down the side of his face while he held a photograph of the two of us sitting on his motorcycle. His right hand tightened when he saw me watching, as though embarrassment still survived within him.
That was the moment I made my decision.
Down the hall lived a resident named Walter Grayson, whose children had purchased a mobility scooter he rarely used. The machine remained fully charged, parked neatly beside his bed like a forgotten promise. I had ridden it once under supervision, discovering it moved quietly but steadily.
Eight miles per hour, the manual had said.
Fast enough.