With a gentle shake of her head, Mommy turned back to the pot, stirring the porridge in slow, thoughtful circles. The soft scent of oats and honey drifted through the air as Granny gave me a curious look from across the table.
"Well now," she said, her eyes narrowing in pretend suspicion, "little monkey... where on earth did you get that crazy idea from, hmm?"
I glanced away from Mommy and turned to Granny. With a grin tugging at the corners of my lips, I pressed my fingers gently to my mouth.
"It's a secret," I whispered, as if the walls might be listening too.
Granny gasped, one hand flying to her chest like I'd just told her the moon was made of butter.
"A secret? Oh-ho!" she said, shaking her head with a dramatic sigh. "You've been spending far too much time with the roses, child. They're starting to whisper nonsense in your ears!"
Still smiling, she turned to Mommy,
"Do you hear this?" Granny said, her voice full of gentle mischief. "She's already keeping secrets from her poor old granny. Wouldn't even tell me a single word—not even a crumb of truth!"
Mommy didn't look up, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a knowing smile. She gave the porridge one last stir, then set the spoon aside with practiced ease.
"She only keeps the good secrets," Mommy said softly, turning around at last. Her eyes found mine, twinkling like she knew exactly what I was hiding. "The kind worth tucking deep inside."
Granny let out a laugh, warm and crackling like kindling catching flame.
"Ah, so that's how it is, is it?" she said. "Little Lara with her head full of dreams and her mouth zipped shut. What a dangerous combination."
"I'm not dangerous," I said, giggling into my hands.
"You will be," Granny muttered with mock warning, wagging her wooden spoon at me. "Mark my words. These quiet ones always end up turning the world upside down."
Breakfast in our house was always filled with laughter. Granny loved telling stories from what she liked to call her "youthful days," and Mommy would just stare at her with that funny look on her face—the one that said here we go again.
"You see, Lara, when I was your age, I was always..."
And off she'd go, her voice full of excitement, spinning wild tales that somehow grew more dramatic each morning. Before one story even ended, she'd already be launching into another, each one more unbelievable than the last.
"Granny, you really are silly!" I said, holding my stomach as I burst into laughter.
Her latest story had me in tears—she'd bumped into a man while running down the hill, and according to her, he tumbled all the way down like a rolling stone.
"He looked like he was flying!" she declared, throwing her arms up dramatically, eyes wide with glee. "Arms flailing, legs kicking—poor man didn't know if he was falling or trying to take off!"
I couldn't stop giggling, and even Mommy had to hide a smile behind her hand as she stirred the porridge.
Granny leaned back in her chair, proud of the chaos she'd caused. "What? It's true!" she said, feigning offense. "You think your old granny can't tell a story without adding wings?"
"If you don't believe me," Granny said with a mischievous grin, "you can always ask Nora's grandfather—after all, he's the one who grew wings!"
After breakfast, I hurried back to my room, Granny close behind me, helping me get dressed with patient hands and a warm smile
Granny helped me slip into my dress—a soft cotton one, pale pink with tiny white flowers embroidered along the hem. The fabric was light and breezy, perfect for a warm day in the village. As she tied the delicate ribbons at my shoulders.
"Now, Lara, promise your old Granny that no matter what, when you climb that hill, you'll be careful. I don't want to hear that you've grown wings yourself, do you hear me?"
With a playful tug on the braid Granny had carefully woven for me, I laughed, feeling the gentle tug on my hair. I jumped off the stool I'd been sitting on and grinned up at her. "I promise, Granny. I'll be careful."
"Well then, get out of here, you little monkey!"
Still grinning, I leaned in and gave Granny a quick peck on the cheek. Then, I ran over to Mommy and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek too, whispering my goodbye before heading out the door.
"Lara, don't forget—I want you home before sundown!" Mommy called from the doorway.
Throwing one last smile her way, I turned and took off down the path, my sandals tapping lightly against the packed earth. The sun was climbing higher now, warming the rooftops and making the morning haze shimmer in the air. The village had fully woken up—doors were open, the smell of baking bread floated from kitchens, and voices filled the air like birdsong.
"Lara, slow down before you knock someone over!" someone called out from behind a market stall, their voice more amused than scolding.
I turned my head briefly and called back, "Sorry!" with a laugh as I weaved between baskets of fruit and bundles of firewood.
As I passed Mrs. Carrow's home, the older woman stepped outside, dusting flour off her apron.
"Lara, tell your grandmother I'll visit her again soon," she said, smiling with her eyes the way grown-ups do when they've known you forever.
I nodded eagerly and gave her a little wave. "I will!"
She chuckled, shaking her head fondly as I darted past her garden gate.
Farther down the path, more doors opened and more familiar voices called out.
"Off to Nora's again?" asked old Mr. Finn as he sat on his stool, carving a wooden pipe.
"Yes, sir!" I called, barely slowing my steps.
He grunted in approval and waved me along. "Tell her father I'll be by tomorrow."
"I will!" I promised again, heart light with the joy of the morning.
Chickens scattered out of my way as I passed the corner where the village square began. Children were already playing, skipping rope and chasing each other with sticks. One of them, Mira, waved both hands in the air when she saw me.
As I ran past the children gathered in the square, I gave them a wave and a quick smile.
Just a little further now.
I turned the corner, the stones beneath my feet warm from the rising sun—and there it was.
Nora's home.
Tucked at the edge of the lane where the tall grass met the village path, it stood like it always had: quiet, wooden, sun-kissed, with little pots of wildflowers crowding the window ledges. And on the porch, like a carving that had always belonged there, sat her grandfather—legs crossed, back straight, a slow puff of smoke curling up from the wooden pipe resting between his fingers.
His eyes, still sharp despite his age, caught me the moment I stepped into view.
"Good morning, Grandpa!" I called out, panting a little as I reached the porch, one hand on my chest, trying to catch my breath from the run.
The old man squinted at me through the curls of smoke drifting lazily from his pipe. He didn't even flinch—just puffed again, slow and steady.
"Dammit, how many times must I tell you?" he grumbled, not unkindly. "It's Mr. Evans, you little brat."
Grandpa," I said between breaths as I stepped onto the porch, my cheeks still pink from running, "is it true that you once grew wings and flew?"
Mr. Evans paused mid-puff. The pipe sagged slightly from the corner of his mouth as he gave me a long, sideways look—like I'd just sprouted feathers myself.
"Child for the last time it is Mr Evan's," he said slowly, eyebrows furrowing, "what kind of nonsense are you spouting this time?"
I stood straighter, hands clasped behind my back, trying not to smile too hard. "Granny said it happened a long time ago. Granny bumped into you and you started flying."?
Hearing my question, Mr. Evans choked on his pipe. A loud spluttering sound escaped as smoke curled upward and his face turned a deep shade of red. He coughed and hacked, waving one hand in front of him like the words alone had knocked the air from his lungs.
"Bumped?" he wheezed at last, pointing the stem of the pipe straight at me like it was a sword. "Bumped, you say?"
I took a cautious step back, trying not to laugh.
"That crazy old hag didn't bump me," he growled, between fits of coughing. "She pushed me! Right down that blasted hill! Said she didn't see me standing there—pah! That woman had eyes sharper than a hawk even back then."
His whole body shook with the memory, smoke puffing from his pipe in short bursts as he spoke.
"I tumbled like a sack of potatoes—over rocks, through weeds—and no," he jabbed the air again for emphasis, "I did not fly. I fell. Fast."
I covered my mouth, trying not to burst into laughter.
"She said it looked like you were flying," I said with a grin.
"That's because your granny's been trying to rewrite history since she was ten," he muttered, settling back in his chair and puffing again with great irritation. "Flying, wings... bah. The only thing I flew into was a patch of thorns."