Our server cleared our empty bowls and placed small cups of bright red omija tea on the table. Sweet, sour, and bitter all at once, the tea lingered on my tongue. Ten minutes later, my grandma managed to stand up and slowly made her way to the car.  
When we dropped her off at her apartment, a heavy stillness filled the air the moment I stepped inside. Everything in the room felt muted. An untouched puzzle sat abandoned on the coffee table while her live-in caregiver watched television. My grandma stumbled softly into the apartment, turned toward us, and said a gentle goodbye before disappearing into her bedroom to rest.  
I looked back at the unfinished puzzle, assuming we would sit together and solve it next time.  
That next time never came.  
The next morning, I did not wake up to an alarm. I woke up to a low, muffled sob coming from the living room, followed by the quiet murmur of my dad's voice on the phone. The air in the hallway felt strangely cold as I walked toward the doorway. Deep down, I already knew what had happened.  
"Grandma peacefully passed away in her sleep last night," my mom said softly, holding each word as if it were fragile glass. 
An overwhelming wave of sadness hit me, but alongside it came a quiet sense of relief, a feeling that instantly brought a sharp sting of guilt. How could I feel even a shred of relief after losing someone I loved?  
Then I remembered her eyes at the restaurant: heavy with pain and silently pleading for rest. For the first time, I understood that relief did not mean I loved her any less. It meant I was grateful that her suffering had finally ended. She no longer had to struggle through each meal, depending on trembling hands to carry out simple tasks, or endure the exhaustion of a body that could no longer keep up with her spirit. 
A year has passed since that day. I still carry the deep regret of missing her funeral because of school, especially knowing my mom's cousins had traveled all the way from Los Angeles to Korea to honor her. There are still moments when I wish I could ask her for advice, hear her voice, or sit beside her at a table for four. But whenever I look back on that final afternoon, I do not want to remember only the woman who was struggling to walk, struggling to eat, and struggling to stay strong. I want to remember the woman who smiled at me across a wooden table with dark sauce around her mouth. 
That is how I choose to carry her with me: not in the silence of her final night, but in the warmth of her final smile over a bowl of noodles, forever at rest.