When my grandmother came to live with us at age 80, it was as though history itself had moved into our home. She remembered everything - faces, places, even conversations from decades ago. She could tell a story in such vivid detail it felt like stepping into another time. She'd sit for hours, talking and smiling, her eyes lighting up with every tale, as though the past was not behind her, but still happening somewhere inside her.

But then came the nights.

Nights when the past didn't just visit - it haunted. She would wake up screaming, crying out that people she had known - people long gone - had come to take her away. She saw them standing by her bed, calling her, waiting. Sometimes she'd speak to them. Other times, she'd cry and beg them to let her stay. Those nights were long and heavy, filled with a fear I couldn't fix.

The next day, she would sleep for hours - her body still, her breathing shallow. It was as if she had traveled far in her dreams and returned completely worn out. And we watched over her, helpless, aching, loving her more deeply with each fragile breath.

She passed away three years ago.

And every single day since, I find myself asking: Will this be me one day? Will my mind also blur the line between memory and reality? Will I wake up in the middle of the night, speaking to people no one else can see? Will I scare the people I love with ghosts from my own story?

Aging is strange. It's not just about wrinkles or forgetting names. Sometimes it's about carrying too much of the past, and not knowing how to let it go. But if I learned anything from my grandmother, it's that love - real, constant, and present - can soften even the scariest moments.

And maybe, just maybe, if I'm lucky, someone will sit with me then, like I did with her. Quietly. Gently. Without needing to understand everything, but choosing to love me through it anyway.