Chapter 27
The night had fallen gently over the village, wrapping it in soft darkness like a warm blanket. Julia sat curled up in her grandmother's old rocking chair, the one that creaked with every movement, like it whispered stories from long ago. She clutched the faded notebook she had found in a wooden box under the bed—the box her grandmother had always kept locked.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the first page.
*"To my dearest Julia,"* it read, written in the familiar, shaky handwriting she missed so much.
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them.
*"If you're reading this, then it means I'm no longer by your side. But my precious girl, I never really left. You carry me with you—in your stories, your laughter, and even in your silence. I see your heart, and I know it's heavy now."*
Julia gasped softly. The words felt like they were reaching into her chest, touching the ache she had buried so deep.
*"You've always had a light in you, one that even sorrow can't put out. When you were just a little girl, you'd sit in that same chair and tell me stories about flying cats and talking stars. I believed in every word. You made the world magical."*
Julia smiled through her tears, remembering the moments, the joy, the way Grandma would clap even at the silliest stories.
*"But now you've forgotten how to smile, haven't you? That's okay, my love. Sometimes grief steals joy. But it doesn't mean it's gone forever. Sometimes, it just waits for you to find it again. And I believe you will."*
She couldn't read anymore. She pressed the notebook to her chest and sobbed.
That night, she dreamed of the garden behind her grandmother's cottage, where roses bloomed even in winter. In the dream, her grandmother sat on the bench, smiling. "Don't give up on your stories, Julia. They're more powerful than you think."
The next morning, Julia didn't speak much. She simply took her grandmother's old typewriter from the dusty shelf, placed a blank page inside, and began to write.
*She wrote not to be famous, but to heal.*
Words poured out—about a girl with a broken heart who still chose to love, about a family who had lost everything but still had each other, about the beauty of grief and how it carves space in the soul for something new to grow.
At first, her little siblings didn't understand. But slowly, they began to gather around her as she typed, asking questions, giving ideas, laughing at silly characters she created. It was as if the light was returning to their house, bit by bit.
One afternoon, as she passed by the village shop, she saw a poster on the wall:
*"National Youth Storytelling Competition – For Dreamers, Writers, and Brave Hearts."*
Without thinking, she tore off the form and took it home.
That night, under the flickering kitchen bulb, Julia filled it out.
For the first time in a long while, she smiled.