The old flashlight refused to work properly again. Grandma Liu clicked it repeatedly in frustration, producing only weak, intermittent flashes in the growing darkness. The worn metal felt cold and unresponsive in her weathered hands.

“This stubborn thing,” she muttered, giving it another shake. “Just like your grandfather - rigid and set in his ways.”

Her grandson Xiaoming looked up from his phone, grinning. At fifteen, he found his grandmother’s ongoing quarrel with household objects endlessly amusing. They sat together on the wooden porch of their rural home, watching sunset paint the surrounding fields in amber hues.

“Why don’t you just buy a new one, Grandma?” he asked, not for the first time. “The store in town has really nice LED ones now.”

She waved dismissively. “This one has character. Your grandfather gave it to me thirty years ago, said it would ’light my way home’ whenever I had to walk back late from helping neighbors with their harvests.” A fond smile crossed her face. “Of course, he was usually the one waiting up with it, pretending he just happened to be outside when I returned.”

Xiaoming set his phone down, intrigued by this glimpse into his grandparents’ past. “What was Grandpa like when he was younger?”

“Oh, just as stubborn, but more romantic about it,” she chuckled. “He’d deny waiting up for me, claim he was just checking on the chickens. At midnight! That man was never good at excuses.”

The flashlight suddenly sputtered to life, casting a steady beam across the yard. Grandma Liu’s eyes lit up triumphantly.

“See? Just needs some patience and understanding, like any long-term relationship.” She patted the metal casing affectionately. “Your grandfather was the same way - took years before he’d admit he worried about me working late.”

“Did you ever tell him you knew he was waiting?” Xiaoming asked.

“Never. Some things are better left unspoken.” She smiled mysteriously. “Though I did start taking longer routes home, giving him more time to ‘check on the chickens.’”

They shared a laugh as night settled in. The flashlight’s beam remained strong, illuminating moths dancing in its glow.

“You know,” Grandma Liu said softly, “I still use it every evening to check the yard, just like he used to. Habit, I suppose.”

Xiaoming watched his grandmother’s gentle handling of the old flashlight, understanding now why she kept it despite its quirks. It wasn’t just a tool, but a repository of precious memories.

The next morning, Xiaoming presented her with a small toolkit he’d ordered online. “For maintenance,” he explained. “So you can keep your flashlight working longer.”

Grandma Liu’s eyes misted over as she hugged him. “Your grandfather would have liked that solution,” she said. “Practical, just like him.”

Together they cleaned and tightened the flashlight’s components. When darkness fell that evening, its beam shone brighter than it had in years, guiding them home just as it always had.