𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐀 ✔︎ (ongoing)

|12| preparations

The next day, I'm up and ready, all dressed and showered. I want to visit Grandad, to check up on him, even if it means him chasing me away with his shoe.

Anyway, that's what I'm going to do.

I practically run to Afonso's Tea Shop, home, in under ten minutes, panting for breath at the sudden change of speed, from tired and slow to fast and active.

The sign on the door still says closed, which means the door's locked.

I get out my keys to unlock the door and push it open.

It's dark and eerily silent. The air smells of dust and a faint smell of sugar as I lock the door behind me, turning on the lights.

There's no sign of Grandad anywhere.

Panic escalates in my body as I rush up the stairs and open his bedroom door.

There he is. Peacefully sleeping.

"Grandad!" I yell.

I run up to his bedside and shake his still body.

"Grandad!" I roar in his ear, sweat trickling down the back of my neck.

He opens his eyes. They're red. Bloodshot. His skin is as pale as paper with a tinge of yellowness and his wrinkles have sunken deeper.

"The safety of this house has vanished," he croaks. "How could you do this to me, Francisco?"

Suddenly, I'm aware of my legs shaking with fear. My knees wobble so badly, I have to kneel on the floor and hold on to the bed so I don't lose my balance.

"I'm sorry," I plead. "I forgot all about its protection, believe me I did."

"There's no way to bring it back now," he interrupts. "The tea shop is out of business. And I may not live any longer."

"No!" I shriek. "You can't do this to me!"

"You did this to yourself, my grandchild."

Rage clutches my chest like a tight fist.

"I will go to Marrakesh," I say. "I will go. Meanwhile, I'll make sure you're taken care of by doctors."

"I don't think they'll help as much as the spearmint tea from-"

"That's why I'm going."

Tears fill Grandad's eyes as he nods, his nostrils quivering.

"I shouldn't be trusting you right now. But I will. Maybe you can repair my trust by doing it," he says. "There's more than enough money in a trunk in the attic..."

Suddenly, the sound of a hacking cough fills the room.

I sit by his bedside, holding his frail hand as he struggles to catch his breath. The room is filled with the sound of his coughing fit.

Suddenly, he lets out a deep, guttural cough, deeper than ever before, and I see flecks of bright red blood on his lips. Panic surges through me as I get out my phone and call nine-nine-nine, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear gripping my heart.

"My grandad is coughing blood," I say, as soon as the emergency services take me to the right receiver.

"We'll be with you as soon as possible, just hang in there," a woman says.

I tell her my address and then chuck my phone away.

I'm not even thinking properly, I'm just scared- scared for his health, safety and wellbeing.

Maybe that's what my dream was warning me about.

Maybe sharing the herbs was the wrong option. That's what made Grandad ill.