My grandson and I rebuilt the train set

Dear Delyara, After my wife died, I packed away the model railway we had built together over thirty years. The tracks crossed a table in the spare room, passing tiny stations she painted by hand. I could not look at it without feeling the whole house become empty. Last summer, my grandson found the boxes and asked whether the trains still worked. I said probably not. He asked if we could find out. We began with one section of track on the kitchen table. Then another. He cleaned the engines while I repaired the wiring. Today, the first train completed the full circuit. It passed the miniature bakery, the painted hills, and the station carrying my wife’s initials. My grandson cheered. I cried, which confused him, so I told him his grandmother had painted the red roof. He touched it carefully and asked me to tell him about her. The railway is no longer only where grief was stored. It has become the place where my grandson is learning her hands.