Granny and the Winter Terrace

Granny never spoke much about her childhood. But once, by the fireplace, when the wind outside howled like an animal in pain, she told a story that left everyone silent.

She had been just thirteen then.

It was a late winter evening in her old village. The kind of evening where the sun hides too early, and shadows crawl faster than they should. Her home was a two-story red-brick house, surrounded by other homes and buildings made of the same tired stone. The bricks were old and darkened with time, and everything looked like it had once burned and decided to stay that way.

That evening, Granny—then just a girl—had gone up to the terrace to collect the dried clothes before the cold set in too deep. The air was biting, and the sky had turned the colour of ash. No stars, no moon. Only clouds, thick like smoke. 

The Forest Granny Should Never Have Found

Every evening, young Granny and her best friend Amrita walked into the forest that lay behind their village. It was their little ritual. The sun would dip low, the birds would sing sleepy songs, and the wind would rustle the leaves gently. It was a place of peace. A place where they could collect wild fruits, vegetables, and stories to share with their families over warm dinners.

But that one evening—that cursed evening—something changed.

They had wandered a little farther than usual, chasing the sweet scent of wild berries and the soft laughter that only old friends share. The trees seemed taller, the ground softer, and the air cooler. They followed the sight of a group of snow-white rabbits hopping between bushes. Then, a peacock spread its glorious feathers, shining with blue and green. It felt like they had walked into a hidden paradise. 

The Day the School Went Empty

Some memories fade with age. Others carve themselves so deeply into the soul, they stay—silent, waiting, haunting.  

Granny had always been a cheerful storyteller. She laughed as she spoke of childhood games, mischief in the village, and the dusty classrooms of her school. But whenever someone mentioned rain—her face changed.  

It was a quiet fear, the kind that doesn’t scream but lingers in the corners of a room. One evening, as thunder rumbled in the distance and we huddled near the heater, she finally told us the story she had kept locked away for years.  

It was a cold January morning. The air smelled of wet soil and smoke from burning wood. Granny, then a little girl with a high ponytail and an oversized schoolbag, left for school on the back of her father’s old bicycle.  

The rain had just begun—gentle and harmless—drizzling like a whisper. She remembered holding her bag tight and hiding her face from the misty wind as her father pedalled down the muddy lane.  

But by the time they reached the school gate, the world looked different.