Chapter: The Grandmother in the Cottage
Behind the looming Victorian Gothic house, nestled at the edge of the untamed garden, stood a small, weathered stone cottage. Ivy crept along its walls, twisting over the uneven stones, while smoke puffed gently from the crooked chimney. Inside, the scent of dried herbs and spiced tea lingered, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender. This was the home of the little girl’s grandmother, a figure both comforting and mysterious, who seemed to exist in a world entirely her own.
The grandmother, known simply as “Nana Mae,” had lived in the cottage for as long as the little girl could remember. Though her face was lined with years of wisdom and hardship, her deep brown eyes sparkled with a warmth that soothed even the darkest fears. Nana Mae was unlike anyone else in the girl’s life. While her mother wielded authority with a cold and jealous hand, her grandmother exuded an aura of quiet strength and gentle understanding.
The little girl often snuck away to the cottage, finding solace within its cozy walls. Here, the world seemed softer, less oppressive. The grandmother always greeted her with open arms and a knowing smile, as if she understood why the girl had come without needing to ask. Nana Mae had an uncanny way of reading people, and while the little girl hadn’t yet found the words to explain the tensions inside the house, her grandmother seemed to see through her silence.
One blustery autumn afternoon, the girl arrived at the cottage with her unevenly cut hair hidden beneath a scarf. Nana Mae, stirring a pot of soup over the open hearth, turned to greet her. But her eyes, sharp and observant, immediately landed on the edge of the scarf where tufts of dark hair peeked through.
“Let me see,” she said softly, crouching to the girl’s level.
Reluctantly, the little girl removed the scarf, revealing the jagged, uneven lengths that framed her tear-streaked face. Nana Mae said nothing at first, only placing her hands gently on the girl’s shoulders.
“Your hair is not what gives you strength,” she said finally, her voice firm but kind. “That’s something no one can take from you, no matter how hard they try.”
The little girl leaned into her grandmother, finding comfort in the steady heartbeat she could hear when she pressed her head to her chest. For a moment, the darkness that followed her seemed to lift.
The grandmother led her to a small wooden table, its surface covered in jars of herbs, bundles of dried flowers, and candles of varying shapes and sizes. “There’s a power in you, my darling,” Nana Mae said as she reached for a small jar of lavender oil. “But power doesn’t mean what others think it does. It’s not in hair or strength or fear. True power is in love, in kindness, and in understanding yourself.”
As the grandmother combed the uneven strands of her hair with a gentle hand, she told the girl stories of her youth—of living in Wales before crossing the sea, of the ancient traditions of their ancestors, and of the magic that still lingered in the quiet corners of the world.
“Your mother doesn’t understand,” Nana Mae said after a pause. “She sees the magic in you, and it frightens her. She’s forgotten the old ways, but I haven’t.”
The little girl listened intently, her fingers brushing against the black cat that had curled itself at her feet. It was in the grandmother’s presence that the girl began to realize her abilities weren’t something to fear, but something to embrace.
“Come back tomorrow,” Nana Mae said as the girl prepared to leave. “There’s something I want to show you—a gift from our family. It’s time you understood who you truly are.”
As the little girl walked back to the house that evening, the shadows seemed less heavy, the whispers quieter. For the first time in a long while, she felt a spark of hope flicker inside her, nurtured by the warmth of her grandmother’s words and the promise of secrets yet to be revealed.
Nana Mae’s cottage had always been a sanctuary for the little girl—a place where she felt seen, loved, and understood. Yet, as the girl grew older and her senses sharpened, she began to notice that no one else ever spoke of Nana Mae. No one else mentioned the cottage behind the house, tucked away in the wild garden. When she once asked her mother about it, her mother snapped, “Stop making up stories. Your grandmother lives downstairs.”
And indeed, the woman who lived in the main house—the real grandmother—was nothing like Nana Mae. She was cold and sharp, with a voice that carried reprimands more often than kindness. She had none of Nana Mae’s warmth, none of her gentle wisdom. The real grandmother only reminded the girl of her shortcomings, mocking her quiet nature and her fascination with things the rest of the family dismissed as nonsense.
The girl couldn’t reconcile these two versions of “grandmother.” When she tiptoed to the cottage, she found Nana Mae sitting by the hearth, always ready with a story or a cup of sweet tea. But when she came back to the house, her encounters with the real grandmother left her feeling small and unwanted. Slowly, the truth began to dawn on her: Nana Mae wasn’t real—not to anyone else.
The thought should have frightened her, but it didn’t. In fact, it made sense in a way she couldn’t yet articulate. Nana Mae was a spirit, an echo of something ancient and kind, perhaps even a guardian tied to the land itself. The little girl remembered Nana Mae’s stories of their ancestors, how magic ran through their blood, and how she would always be there to guide her. Now, she understood those words weren’t metaphorical—they were a promise.
When the girl wore the pendant and opened the grimoire, she could feel Nana Mae’s presence as though she were sitting beside her, even when she wasn’t in the cottage. It was as if the spirit had tied herself to these items, ensuring the girl would never be alone in her journey, no matter what cruelty the real world handed her.
The real grandmother, bitter and suspicious, often mocked the girl’s quiet escapes to the garden. “What are you doing out there?” she sneered one evening. “Talking to the weeds?” The girl didn’t answer. She only smiled faintly and clutched the pendant around her neck, knowing that Nana Mae’s spirit was closer than her grandmother could ever understand.
From that day on, the girl accepted the duality of her life. The cottage and Nana Mae were her refuge, her connection to a world that others couldn’t see. The real grandmother could sneer and dismiss her all she wanted; the girl knew the truth. Nana Mae wasn’t real to everyone else—but to her, she was the truest thing in the world.