My Grandmother, the Stranger

If I had to choose a single person who had made the greatest impact on my life, it would be my grandmother—the stranger. The unnamed eccentric whose identity to me was simply 'Grandmother,' and to a few others, 'Damien's grandmother.'

How to describe her? My hero at the time was an enigmatic person who seemed as though she had one foot in this world and the other deep within her mind. Her eyes, cloudy with the patina of age, were like twin moons suspended in a sky of wrinkled flesh. They saw more than anyone else's, or so it seemed.

Growing up, I realized early on that the other kids' grandmothers knitted, or told stories of their childhood days, and shared recipes they discovered. Mine showed me how to play with swords. And she climbed trees—where she would speak of dragons that threatened thieving dwarves under the moonlight, and holy cities built atop titanic tortoises.

Our home was just as peculiar as the tales she spun. Nested in a forgotten nook of the forest next to a small town, the house lacked any sign of modern novelty. Instead, it was a labyrinth of books, trinkets, and artifacts from gods knows where. Books bound in leather with writing that changed each time they were opened, a mirror that refused to show your reflection, and countless other oddities filled our home.

Grandma would often sit me down under the ancient oak in our backyard, a place she claimed was enchanted. The breeze would rustle the leaves overhead, and she would begin a story that transported us to worlds far beyond our own.

It was during one such day that I understood more than one world existed. Under the guidance of my grandmother, who at times enjoyed speaking in theatrics, with an accent I was never able to place, she painted vivid images of the Great Realms.

"What I recount are mere whispers of the tales they hold, glimpses into realms both known and concealed," my grandmother whispered in a lyrical tone.

She told me that the universe wasn't as simple or limited as I thought; rather, it resembled a yarn of interwoven planes, dimensions, held together by unknown forces and mystery threads that were invisible to most living eyes. These were worlds beyond ours, hidden in plain sight.

With a sigh, she continued, "We live in the Benedict Realm, where the Blessed find their song, and where the heroes of old belong." This realm served as home to those our history acknowledged as blessed: the Dwarves, Elves, and Men. From the deep forests to the rising tides, and the mountains and plains, it was our sanctuary.

Lying directly beside Benedict was the Soluna Realm. "Ah, Soluna," Grandmother's voice trailed with a hint of wariness. "The Realm of stars, where skies dance with celestials and thunderclaps serve as applause from the gods." It was a realm with countless stellar wonders—stunning like no other—stretching deep into the sky. "The Soluni are just as you are, flesh and blood, yet their essence is different. See one, and you shall understand."

In the opposite direction was the Veiled Realm. "The Realm of Eternal Autumn, where the leaves never stop falling, and the twilight stretches as long as a lifetime," Grandmother would say. It was a juncture of the fleeting and the eternal. It housed spirits, wraiths, and spectral beings that were rumored to hide in our fears and the corner of dreams.

Further still lay the Fae Realm, inhabited by the whimsical 'Fair Folk.' Grandmother described it with a twinkle in her eyes as a place of enchantment, blooming with curious magic at every turn. "The Fae Realm is like a rose, beautiful to behold, but beware the hidden thorns," she cautioned. It was a scene of beauty, but also of masked intentions. For the Fair Folk were as fickle as they were alluring.

"But oh, dear heart," Grandmother cautioned gravely.

She told me that while most Realms rarely mixed with Benedict, there were other Worlds that pounded at our doors. The twin realms: Erebus and Abyss. These two planes were the birthplace of all sorts of wicked spawn. They were the evil that threatened our very existence—bloodthirsty monsters from Erebus that ate children, and demons from the Abyss that devoured your soul.

We had continued like that for hours. Me, listening, and my grandmother spreading her knowledge.

And before she sent me off to bed, she told me one last thing. A lesson she echoed just once.

"Wherever you choose to tread, dear heart," she warned, her voice a mere breath against the still of the night, "names have meaning, and you mustn't mingle too closely with unnamed strangers."

After that night, at the tender age of nine, I never saw my grandmother again. Like she'd never existed.