"What are you doing, Sarah?" Jane's voice, unexpectedly close behind me, made me jump slightly. Her approach had been as silent as a highly trained ninja, which was frankly impressive for a woman of her age. Turning around, I saw the familiar twinkle of mischief in her eyes, a trait that had never diminished with the years.

"I'm cooking you dinner," I replied, trying to sound more confident in my culinary skills than I felt. The kitchen, usually Jane's domain, felt like unfamiliar territory under her watchful gaze.

"Looks to me like you're burning it," she answered. Jane made a grand show of peering into the pans and pots on the stove, her theatrical scrutiny making it clear that she found my cooking efforts less than satisfactory. My grandmother always had a flair for the dramatic, and it hadn't waned in the slightest.

"Go and sit in your recliner," I told her, a gentle firmness in my voice. "It won't be long now." I ushered her towards her favourite chair, the one she claimed was moulded perfectly to her form after years of use.

As I watched her amble towards the recliner, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude, mixed with a touch of relief. Her interruption was timely, pulling me away from the distracting thoughts that had been impeding my already questionable cooking skills. I wasn’t a great cook at the best of times, a fact that had always been a slight sore point for me. Jane had spent countless hours over the years, patiently trying to teach me the art of cooking. The warm, laughter-filled memories of those lessons floated back to me, a stark contrast to the present where I was fumbling with basic recipes.

Despite all her efforts, and my earnest attempts, it seemed like a truth I had to accept: my cooking would never equal my grandmother’s. Her dishes were more than just food; they were a blend of love, tradition, and a lifetime of experience, something I was still far from achieving. Yet, as I glanced back at her settling into her recliner, I couldn't help but feel a wave of affection. Cooking for Jane, even with my limited skills, was a small way of giving back some of the love and care she had always showered upon me.

"Have you heard from Oscar lately?" Jane's voice floated in from where she now sat comfortably ensconced in her recliner. The chair was like a cozy nest, nestled in one corner of the small living room, surrounded by an array of family photos and knick-knacks that told the story of our lives.

"No, I haven't heard from him for a few months," I responded, my voice carrying over the sizzle and clatter of the kitchen. This wasn't unusual for Oscar and me; our lives often took us in different directions, leading to long stretches where we wouldn't speak. There was no underlying tension, just the simple ebb and flow of life and distance.

"Oh," was all Jane said in reply. Her voice held a note of disappointment, but she didn't press further. I heard the soft click of the radio being turned on, filling the living room with a gentle hum of music, a soothing background to the evening.

In the kitchen, I continued clanging away, my focus now entirely on finishing the meal preparations. I was determined to salvage what I could from the slightly scarred culinary attempt. The aroma of cooking, a blend of both successful and not-so-successful elements, filled the air. I stirred and tasted, adjusted seasonings, and kept a wary eye on anything that looked like it might burn.

Cooking always had a way of grounding me, pulling me back from the whirlwind of thoughts that often occupied my mind. As I moved around the kitchen, the familiar actions brought a sense of calm. There was something therapeutic about the process, a way to express care and love, even if the results were less than perfect.

The mention of Oscar lingered in the back of my mind, a reminder of the family ties that were so important, yet often stretched thin by the demands of life. I made a mental note to reach out to him, to bridge the gap that time and distance had created. For now, though, my focus was on the meal before me and the cherished company waiting in the other room.

"Come on then. Let's get you up to the table," I said, setting aside my culinary concerns for a moment. I approached my grandmother, and gently, with a care that had become more necessary over the years, I helped her out of the chair. Her movements were slower now, each one measured and deliberate, a stark contrast to the sprightly woman she once was. I guided her to the table, ensuring she was seated comfortably before I took my own seat opposite her.

"Smells good," Jane remarked, a small, encouraging smile playing on her lips.

I smiled back at her, my heart warmed by her eternal optimism. Jane always had a way of finding the silver lining, even in the most ordinary of moments. There was no doubt in my mind that her compliment was more a show of support than a culinary critique. After all, she was a woman of uncompromising honesty, and to say that the meal looked good would surely break a lifelong tradition.

"You better get to eating it then," I replied, trying to keep the atmosphere light. I shovelled a forkful of mashed potato into my mouth, only to immediately splutter. The pepper, it seemed, had been a bit too enthusiastic in its contribution to the dish.

Noticing my reaction, I quickly reached for the small jug of gravy on the table. The brown, viscous liquid seemed like the only hope to salvage the over-seasoned meal. "I think you might need some more gravy," I said, pouring a generous amount over Jane's potatoes in a valiant effort to temper the peppery assault.

Jane let out a light chuckle, a sound that was now laced with the croaks and crackles of age, each one telling a story of the years she had lived. Despite the wear in her voice, the warmth and affection it carried remained unchanged.

We ate the meal in a companionable quiet, the only sounds being the soft clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmur of appreciation. I noticed how every week, Jane was getting slower at feeding herself, the simple act requiring more effort and concentration. Keeping up a conversation while eating seemed to exhaust her, but that was alright. Our silent meals had become a time of unspoken understanding and shared contentment.

Sitting there with Jane, in the warmth of her small space, the simplicity of our meal took on a deeper significance. It was in these quiet, unassuming dinners that the true essence of our relationship revealed itself. They were less about culinary successes or failures and more about the connection we shared. It was a bond woven from years of shared history, unspoken love, and understanding. As we sat together, the importance of just being in each other's presence, surrounded by the comforting embrace of family, became crystal clear. The quality of the meal paled in comparison to the richness of our togetherness.

"They said they told you about the cancer," Jane's words sliced through the peaceful atmosphere like a bolt out of the blue.

The suddenness of her statement caused my fork to slip from my fingers, clattering loudly against the plate. The sound seemed to echo in the room, marking a stark contrast to the serene quiet that had enveloped us moments before. Startled, I watched as specks of the over-peppered potatoes scattered across the table, like little reminders of life's unexpected and often messy turns.

I looked up, my gaze meeting Jane's. Her eyes, always so gentle and understanding, now sparkled with an uncharacteristic intensity under the soft yellow light that bathed our dining table. There was a resilience in her gaze, a strength that belied her years and the weight of the news she carried.

As I sat there, absorbing the weight of Jane's words, a tumultuous surge of emotions wrestled within me. The news of her cancer was like a sledgehammer, shattering the illusion of permanence that we so often take for granted. It was a stark, unyielding reminder of life's fragility and the relentless march of change. Yet, amidst this maelstrom of feelings, a resolve took root within me. I was determined to be strong, to stand as the unwavering pillar that Jane had always been throughout my life. My heart ached with a profound desire to protect her, to somehow shield her from the cruel onslaught of illness that now threatened to engulf her.

"Oh, Jane," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips. "What am I going to do without you?" The question hung in the air, laden with fear and vulnerability. I could feel the tears brimming in my eyes, each one a testament to the love and bond we shared. I wanted to let them fall, to release the dam of emotions welling inside me, but I held them back. I needed to be strong for Jane, to offer her the same steadfast support she had always given me.

Jane reached out and took my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, a grip that spoke of a life lived with determination and resilience. She held on firmly, and with her free hand, she tenderly wiped at a single tear that had managed to escape, now glistening like a crystal on the brink of my eyelid.

"Come and sit with me," she said softly, her voice imbued with warmth and an unspoken understanding of the turmoil I was experiencing. She squeezed my hand again, a gesture that conveyed so much more than words could. It was an invitation, a plea, and a comfort all at once.

Without a word, I stood and assisted Jane down from the dining table. She moved with a careful, measured grace that spoke of years carrying wisdom and experience. I couldn't help but smile gently as she shuffled over to the couch, settling herself at the far end. It was her preferred spot, a cozy corner of the world where she often retreated when her recliner wasn't the chosen throne.

I retrieved Jane's favourite small blanket from the recliner, a soft, well-worn piece that seemed to hold as many memories as it did warmth. Draping it gently over my grandmother's lap, I was struck by the simple act of care, a role reversal that was both bittersweet and heartwarming.

"Thank you, Sarah," Jane said, her voice soft yet rich with gratitude.

Kicking off my shoes, I curled up on the couch, finding a comforting sanctuary as I rested my head on Jane's lap. In that moment, lying there, I allowed myself a brief respite from the stoic front I had been maintaining. The tears I had been fighting back began to threaten once again, but the gentle stroke of Jane's wrinkled hand through my hair was a soothing balm. Her fingers were warm against my scalp, surprisingly soft for a woman who had lived through so much. Each tender touch seemed to say, "It's okay, I'm here.”

I smiled, feeling a wave of affection and gratitude wash over me, as Jane carefully pushed a long strand of my fringe back behind my ears. It was a small, maternal gesture, but it held a universe of love and understanding.

"I think you need this," Jane said, with a knowing smile. She handed me a floral handkerchief, its fabric soft and familiar, a token of countless moments of comfort provided over the years.

I took the hanky, dabbing lightly at my eyes, trying to stem the tide of emotions. Lying there, looking up at my grandmother, I was enveloped in a profound sense of connection. Her presence, her touch, her understanding, they all weaved together to create a tapestry of love and support that had always been the bedrock of my life. In that moment, I realised the invaluable gift of having someone who knew me so well, someone who could offer solace without needing words to fill the silence. The room was quiet, save for the soft, comforting sounds of our shared presence, a reminder that sometimes, just being together was enough.

"So, when do I get to meet him?" Jane's question, casual yet loaded with curiosity, caught me slightly off guard. I could feel her eyes on me, twinkling with a mix of mischief and genuine interest.

"Meet who?" I feigned ignorance, although deep down, I knew exactly who she was referring to. It was a feeble attempt at deflection, but I wasn't quite ready to dive into this conversation.

"This dream man of yours that makes you moan so much." Jane's words were blunt, her tone teasing, a reminder of her knack for cutting straight to the heart of matters, no matter how personal.

"Jane!" I couldn't help but chide her, a mix of embarrassment and amusement colouring my tone. "It was only once!" I protested, feeling my cheeks warm at the memory of that unguarded moment.

"Mmm," Jane hummed, her voice laced with playful skepticism. "Only once that you remember."

My relationship with Jane had always been open and honest, but when it came to Karl, I hesitated. I was reluctant to burden her with the complexities of my work life, and Karl, unfortunately, fell squarely into that category. There was a part of me that wanted to keep that world separate, to protect her from the stress and worries that came with my job.

"His name is Karl," I finally admitted, feeling a sense of resignation mixed with a strange relief. Admitting his name felt like crossing a threshold, acknowledging that Karl was more than just a work issue. There was a small part of him, I had to concede, that had started to transcend the confines of my professional life.

"Just Karl?" Jane's inquiry was gentle, probing but not insistent. She had always had a way of asking questions that invited honesty without demanding it.

"Just Karl," I confirmed. I was still trying to figure out where Karl fit into my life, and saying his name out loud to Jane somehow made it more real, more tangible.

Jane didn't push any further. She had always known when to press and when to let things be, a skill honed through a lifetime of caring for others. In her silence, there was an understanding, an unspoken acceptance that I would share more when I was ready. Her presence, warm and comforting, was a reminder that she was there for me, no matter what or who came into my life. In that moment, the couch felt like the safest place in the world, a sanctuary where I could be myself, vulnerabilities and all, surrounded by the unwavering support of my grandmother.

"Hey, do you know the Jeffries?" I ventured, breaking the comfortable silence that had enveloped us. As I asked the question, I was acutely aware that I was bending my self-imposed no-work rule. But in this case, curiosity overcame protocol... and Jane didn't need to know that bit.

"Jeffries," Jane echoed thoughtfully, her voice a murmur of recollection. "It's not ringing any bells." She furrowed her brow slightly, a sign that she was sifting through her vast repository of memories.

"Louise Jeffries," I added, watching closely as my grandmother closed her eyes, concentrating. I could almost see the cogs turning in her mind, searching through decades of names and faces.

"Oh, do you mean Louise Greyson?" Jane suddenly asked, her eyes springing open with the clarity of recovered memories.

I was about to dismiss the connection, but then it struck me. If Louise's brother was Jamie Greyson, then it would stand to reason that Greyson was her maiden name. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration at the complexities names could introduce into my investigations. Life, and particularly my job, would indeed be so much simpler if people didn't change their names out of marital tradition and notions of romance.

"Possibly," I replied, pulling myself back from my cynical reflections on the nature of marital name changes. "She has a brother called Jamie Greyson."

"Yes! That's it!" Jane exclaimed, a spark of recognition lighting up her features. "I remember her now. Your mother was good friends with Louise's mother before she died. I believe your father used to work with her father, too. I forget his name."

I paused for a moment, mulling over this new information. "I don't know it either," I admitted. This unexpected connection between my family and the Greysons was something I hadn't anticipated. It made me wonder about the myriad of untold stories and forgotten connections that lay hidden in the past, and how they intertwined with the present.

"Come to think of it, Jamie comes to visit me every few months," Jane's words drifted into the air, casual yet laden with an unforeseen significance.

"Really?" I asked, my surprise evident. The revelation that Jamie Greyson, a person of interest in my investigation, was a visitor to my own grandmother's home was both startling and intriguing. The lines between my personal and professional life seemed to blur a little more with each passing moment.

Our conversation, however, was abruptly cut short by the insistent beeping of an alarm from the kitchen. The sound was sharp, a mechanical reminder of the routines and responsibilities that structured our lives.

"Oh," Jane remarked, a note of resignation in her voice, "Time for me to take my bedtime pills."

At her words, I felt a twinge of disappointment that our conversation had been interrupted. Yet, this feeling was quickly overshadowed by a deeper sense of care and responsibility. My grandmother's health and well-being were paramount, and her nightly medication routine was not something to be taken lightly.

As I stood up, ready to assist her, a wave of reflection washed over me. In the grand scheme of things, the urgency of my investigation paled in comparison to the precious, finite moments I had with Jane. The inexorable passing of time was a constant reminder that I couldn't hold on to my grandmother forever. But for now, in this moment, I could be with her, support her, and cherish the time we shared. Jamie Greyson and the mysteries surrounding him could wait. Right now, my priority was my grandmother.