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Granny

Anneliese Sommer still lives in the old farmhouse on the edge of Herrsching, in the same rooms she once filled with children’s voices and the smell of freshly baked bread. Though she’s no longer young, she rises early every morning, puts on her floral apron, and opens the kitchen windows to let in the scent of the fields. Her steps may be slower now, but her hands are steady – whether folding laundry, kneading dough, or pouring tea into Josef’s mug that still waits by the table.
She no longer works the fields, but she knows when the cows are restless or when the weather is about to change. She watches the rhythms of the farm from the window, content to be part of it all in her quiet way. The household has grown quieter – Jonas helps outside, Mark and Melanie keep things running, and Lia’s room upstairs stands clean but untouched, waiting for the next visit.
Neighbors still stop by for her apple cake, and on Sundays she sometimes walks to the little bench under the walnut tree, hands folded in her lap, watching birds and remembering. She doesn't speak of her losses unless asked, and even then, only briefly. But her presence carries them all – Josef, Franz, Rainer – with the gentle weight of memory and the grace of someone who has already made peace.
Anneliese lives in the spaces between the past and the present. She doesn’t long for what was, nor rush toward what’s next. She simply tends what remains – with care, with patience, and with love.