The Glass Painting

The glass painting sat in the attic, where no one was allowed. Amara had stories, though. Many, many stories. Told by several tongues. Old and young.

Growing up, Amara had heard it all. Some openly claimed it was haunted. Others whispered about a murder. And some others still spoke about witchcraft. Mama and papa were tightlipped about it. There's nothing there, mama had said dismissively. Papa had not even entertained any questions, leaving Amara disgruntled and dissatisfied.

But grandma was different. She never dismissed Amara, and she never disgruntled her.

Grandma spoke of magic. Not sorcery. Not witchcraft. But magic.

There is magic there. Old, old magic.

'Magic?' Amara remembered asking, her eyes widening with amazement. 'But isn't that just in stories...?'

'We're all stories,' Grandma would say with a wry smile. 'I will be a story soon. But that doesn't mean I wasn't real.'

Amara would be convinced by her grandmother's logic, and also extremely saddened at the thought of her death. 'You would never be a story, grandma. You will never go. I won't let you,' she would say, winding her arms around her grandmother's waist tightly. The conversation about the attic, forgotten, Amara would have sleepless nights about her grandma's death. It was only when grandma promised her that death would come to her very, very late, that Amara's anxieties were soothed.

But as her anxieties were quelled, her curiosity about the attic grew. Fueled by the stories grandma continued to tell her. But that's all they are, Amara would convince herself, stories. But that was 15 years ago. And grandma was a story herself, now.

Amara's curiosity remained unquenched, though. Although she tried to satisfy it with books, legends, myths, and stories from other people, it was never quelled. The thirst was never calmed. No one would tell her the stories she wanted to her. And even if they did, she was sick of it.

She was sick of the stories, and sick of the stench of mystery leaking from the floors, the walls, and the ceilings. The attic seemed to be calling her. Asking her to visit. Come, it said. She had resisted firmly. No, she would tell herself. It was dangerous. Her papa had said so. Her mama had said so. But on the cusp of her twenty-first birthday, she is compelled to explore, and what she finds, leaves her altered.