We always thought it was just her thing. Every night, like clockwork at 7:00 p.m., Grandma Ina pours herself a single glass of wine—same green goblet, same chair, no matter the occasion. Birthdays, holidays, even tornado warnings—nothing interrupts the ritual. She’s 105 now. Still sharp. Still stubborn. Still arching one judgmental eyebrow at my choices, taking a quiet sip as if it says more than words ever could. Last night, it was just the two of us. No background noise.…