When my grandmother was still alive, she asked me to remove her photo from her gravestone exactly one year after her death. When I did, I was overcome with horror.

Shortly before she passed, she called me into her room. We were alone. Her voice, barely audible, was like a whisper:
— Remove my photo from the grave exactly one year after. Not before. Can you promise me that?

I tried to reassure her:
— Come on, grandma… you still have many beautiful moments ahead…

She gave a small smile, closed her eyes, and whispered again:
— Promise me…

I looked at her with emotion and nodded. That night, she passed away in silence.

Twelve months later, I had nearly forgotten that strange request. But a promise is sacred. At the cemetery, I unscrewed the frame easily, and when I removed the picture, I gasped:
— This can’t be…

The rest in the first comment

On the back of her photo was an old, faded picture. A young woman beamed with joy, wearing a stylish dress, standing in front of an old house.

The face looked eerily like mine. Like a version of myself from another time.

I took a photo of the gravestone and went to see my grandfather. He seemed to expect me.

When I handed him the photo, he smiled wistfully:
— That’s her… your grandmother, the way she looked when I met her. A true movie heroine.

— But why hide that image?

He sighed and said quietly:
— She always cared about how she looked. Aging was hard for her. She’d say, “Why do we put pictures of ourselves old on gravestones? Why not show ourselves at our best?”

Then she’d add: “But if I put a young photo, people will think I’m a vain old woman…”

Tears ran gently down my cheeks, mixed with a smile.

Now everything made sense: she wanted me, when the grief had softened, to discover the radiant woman she had once been. Full of grace. Of joy. Of life.