Little Butterfly

Chapter 9 - Little butterfly

Little Butterfly~

I continue jogging through the woods, the cool morning air brushing against my skin. Mishou is back at the cottage, probably curled up on my grandmother's favorite armchair by now. As my feet rhythmically hit the ground, my mind wanders back to the strange dream that unsettled me during the night.

In the dream, I am transported back to a time when I am about 10 years old. It is late at night, and I am running through narrow, dimly lit streets. Fear grips my heart as I glance over my shoulder and see someone following me, their presence ominous and threatening. They are closing in, and panic surges through me.

I am wearing old, torn clothes, my small frame thin and dirty. My hair is unkempt and knotted, a stark contrast to the neatness I always maintain now. Each step I take feels desperate, as if my very survival depends on outpacing my pursuer. My younger self doesn't know where she is running to, only that she has to keep moving, keep running far away from whoever is chasing her.

The dream is vivid, the emotions raw and palpable even now as I jog through the peaceful woods. It leaves me with an uneasy feeling, a sense that there is a part of my past shrouded in mystery, hidden away like the missing pieces of a puzzle.

As I jog on, surrounded by the tranquility of nature, I can't shake the feeling that the dream holds some deeper significance, perhaps a clue to understanding the secrets my grandparents seem intent on keeping. It is a puzzle I am determined to unravel, starting with today.

Finishing my jog, I head back to the cottage, my thoughts swirling with memories of the dream and the unanswered questions about my parents. Today, I will confront my grandparents gently, seeking the truth that has been elusive for so long.

🦋

"Gran, how come you don't have any pictures of my parents?" I ask tentatively, trying to sound casual despite the weight of the question.

She pauses her work with the essence oil, her hands momentarily still as she glances up at me with a mixture of surprise and sadness in her eyes. "Oh, Sophie," she murmurs softly, her voice tinged with a hint of reluctance.

I can sense her hesitation, the unspoken reluctance to delve into a topic that seems to carry a heavy burden. Yet, I need to know. For years, the absence of any photographs or stories about my parents has left a void in my understanding of who I am and where I come from.

"Why haven't you ever shown me a picture of them? I don't even know what they looked like," I press gently, trying to convey my longing to fill this gap in my life story.

My grandmother sighs deeply, setting down the small vial of essence oil on the wooden table. "Sophie, it's not that we don't want to share," she begins slowly, choosing her words with care. "Your parents... they were very private people. They didn't like their photos being taken, and they didn't leave behind many personal belongings."

Her explanation raises more questions than answers. "But why? Were they hiding something?" I ask, my curiosity piqued and a tinge of apprehension creeping into my voice.

She shakes her head slightly, her gaze distant as if lost in memories that pained her. "No, not hiding anything, dear. They were just... reserved. And after they... passed away, there wasn't much left behind," she explains vaguely, her words trailing off.

The mention of their passing stings like an old wound, a reminder of the emptiness I have always felt regarding my parents. "Do you have any stories about them? Anything you can tell me?" I persist, hoping to glean some insight into the lives of the two people who brought me into this world.

Her expression softens, a mixture of sadness and love reflected in her eyes as she looks at me. "They were wonderful people, Sophie. Your mother had a kind heart, always helping others. And your father... he was so talented with his hands, always fixing things around the house," she reminisces quietly, a fond smile touching her lips briefly before it fades.

I absorb her words, grateful for even these small glimpses into their lives. "I wish I had known them," I murmur softly, my voice tinged with regret.

"I know, dear," she replies gently, reaching out to squeeze my hand reassuringly. "They would have been so proud of the woman you've become."

Her words warm my heart, easing some of the ache I feel for not knowing my parents. "Thank you, Gran," I say sincerely, grateful for her honesty and the comfort she offers.

With a nod, she returns to her task with the essence oil, the moment of vulnerability passing as she resumes her familiar routine. But the questions about my parents still linger, a puzzle that I am determined to piece together, one conversation at a time.