He Saved the Last Puzzle Piece for Me
Sometimes love doesn’t leave — it simply waits to be remembered
Those we love don’t go away; they walk beside us every day.
Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear old cardigans with missing buttons, smell faintly of peppermint and garden soil, and speak in soft hums instead of loud words. My grandpa was that kind of hero from the classical days.
He lived in a quiet house. The lace curtains would move gently with the wind, and I can still hear that soft sound in my mind. The garden always smelled like sunshine and old books. Grandpa didn’t talk much, but when he did, you wanted to listen. His words felt like warm soup on a cold day.
In one corner of his living room was his favorite place, a small wooden table. It wasn’t for eating or writing. It was just for puzzles. That was Grandpa’s world. Scattered pieces, quiet focus, and patient hands. He called it his thinking spot, but to me, it always felt like his remembering place.
When I was little, too small for chairs and full of questions, I’d sit with him at that table. I was quite thin and short, so most of the time I just sat with him and watched the game. I used to help him hold the puzzle pieces.
The blue ones all of them looked the same to me. I could never figure out where each piece was supposed to go (you know sky scene pieces). I would often insist, “Now I want to place this piece,” and I’d always mess up the whole sequence.
And the funny thing was, finding the blue pieces was my job. I never understood how Grandpa always placed them exactly where they belonged. He’d smile and say, “Every puzzle has a story, my love. And every piece knows where it belongs… even if it takes a little time.”
His way of looking at things and the events happening in the world was quite different. He always caught the point that others missed. He moved slowly, spoke gently, but carried a strength that made you feel safe and proud to have him. I always felt safe when I was with him, even though I knew he was aged and weak. But still, he was my strength.
One summer holiday, at a big family picnic by the lake, I found myself sitting alone under a tree. Mostly, the children of the family were playing, running, and laughing. But I wasn’t fast. I kept missing the ball. An uncle laughed and said, ‘Maybe you’re not built for games, huh?’ I smiled on the outside, but I was shrinking inside; it was painful.
I hadn’t been quick from the beginning. Once, I fell while running during a game at school. Since then, a quiet fear settled in me — I couldn’t catch up like the other kids, couldn’t run as fast. That’s why I mostly played indoor games instead
And then, Grandpa appeared beside me, tapping his cane softly. “Come with me,” he said. He led me to the water, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped in. “Have you ever try floating?” he asked.
I shook my head. I was scared. He knelt beside me, slid his hand gently under my back, and looked me in the eyes. “Trust the water,” he said softly. “Just drown the fear in water.”
And I did. I wasn’t behind anymore. I wasn’t failing. I was floating light as a leaf, safe in the water, with Grandpa watching.
“You’ve got something special,” he whispered. “You see what others miss. The world may not notice yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.” I never told anyone about that day. But I carried it in my heart, like a secret shell tucked away in a pocket.
As I grew, life got busier. The puzzle table stayed where it was, but I stopped visiting too often. There were deadlines, assignments, and growing up. And then, one day, Grandpa was gone.
The house was still, too still. The white curtains of his room were still moving with the wind, but his chair didn’t rock anymore. No peppermint scent. No hums.
I wandered into the room and saw it was his puzzle table. A new puzzle was there, perhaps waiting for me. Because every piece was in its place, except one. Beside the empty spot, there was a folded piece of paper. In his wobbly handwriting:
“I saved this one for you. Every story needs you to finish it.”
I sat down, not to talk, just to remember. The sky pieces. The floating lesson. The quiet love that never asked me to be anything other than myself.
Some love doesn’t disappear and go from the world, it just changes form.
It becomes the last puzzle piece. The steady hand beneath you when you’re afraid to float. The soft voice that says, “You belong.”
And if you ever feel lost in life, find your puzzle table or whatever reminds you of those who truly saw you. Because love like that doesn’t disappear. It waits quietly, patiently, right where you left it.
Take your time, my love, I can still hear him saying,
“You always had the piece that mattered most.”
This story was written by Amir Bibi and originally published on our Medium Publication SSS.
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Cherish the Moments, Cherish the Stories,
The Simple Story Seekers Team
🌏Gabby, Ainy, and Amir
Simple Story Seekers - We are Made of Stories
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"And if you ever feel lost in life, find your puzzle table or whatever reminds you of those who truly saw you. Because love like that doesn’t disappear. It waits quietly, patiently, right where you left it." What an enduring finish to a beautiful story and life. Loved every word.