Late at night, insomnia prompted her to open the window. The heart of the night, which brightened her rapt face, reminded her of a vague yet comforting memory.
Back in the day, she, who used to sit on her grandmother’s lap, was the disciple of the vicissitudes of a lifetime. Whenever her granny told a story —or rather unraveled experiences—, emotions, that were spread all over the dining room, were escorted by the chimney embers, which then could not help but cracking louder, to the spell of her eloquence.
“At that time, my dear, streets were frequented by tanks, and in the morning we were not wakened by roosters but by gunshots. Some children even heard their parents crying, who assumed that their children were sleeping. However, civil war atrocities never weakened our smiles; there was still hope under the rubble of war.”
All of a sudden, something moving made her go back to the warm night. It was neither a plane nor fireworks, but a shooting star piloted by her grandmother. Her only wish was to let herself be carried away by the magic of the moment. As she was shutting the window, she sighed and thought, “Fortunately, grandparents never leave at all.”