When I was seven, visiting my grandfather felt like stepping into a small adventure I never questioned. Each week, I’d walk beside him from the corner store to his modest home at the end of the street, proudly believing I was helping him find his way. Inside, he followed a gentle routine every time: he took my hands, studied my face closely, smiled, and poured us both a glass of grape juice. Back then, I thought it was just our little ritual, something that made those afternoons feel safe, familiar, and quietly important.
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