Nana's legacy

The air was crisp, the leaves on the trees had begun to turn brown, and the sky was leaden. It was a gloomy Saturday afternoon. Just an ordinary Saturday afternoon that completely transformed my life.

When I arrived at Nana's house I felt oddly brittle and my breathing was accelerated. I hadn't been there in what felt like an eternity. I clearly remembered how thrilled I was to come here as a child, how I had trouble sleeping the night before because of the immense anticipation.

How things have turned.

But after a dragging thirty minutes of dithering, I finally gathered the courage to enter the house. Nothing had changed. The floors still creaked when I walked into the living room, there was Nana's favourite peppermint candy on the kitchen counter, and the white picture frame in the entry hall was still crooked. As I ran my fingers through the wall, I realized that it felt different though. It smelled empty and it seemed darker, lonely. Everything was quieter; there was no noise from the coffee machine, no jazz music playing in the background, no dogs running around in the yard.

Memories hastened to my head, and I could picture Nana's face as if I had seen her yesterday. Silky, white hair; kind, green eyes; genuine smile; elegant dress; and, of course, the notebook in her hand.

Nana owned a little notebook. She always carried it with her, it was her silent and faithful companion. She constantly wrote in it. No matter the time of day, the people she was with, or her mood; she spent hours on end turning blank pages into fascinating stories. She would stop everything she was doing and order everyone to quiet down as she decisively grabbed a pen and began to write. Like water falling from a waterfall, words tumbled out of her mind in a tarn of ink and lined paper.

When I was younger I dreamt of one day getting to read Nana's tales. Of finally devouring her chaotic thoughts scattered all over the thin pages of her notebook.

The forbidden notebook.

I tirelessly begged Nana to reveal to her what she was writing, but she never did. Nobody was allowed near that notebook, near her words. It was her precious little secret.

"A writer's notebook is a writer's mind. You cannot read people's minds, so peaking at my notebook would be unfair." - Nana always said.

But I never understood why her words were so inestimable, why her mind was so prized. I always thought that she didn't let me read her stories because they weren't polished; I thought it was because of her perfectionist nature. Nothing was ever ready nor good enough for Nana. Nonetheless, I always admired her courage and dedication to the art.

I made my way up the stairs. The railing was cold and chills came down my spine. My legs hesitated with every step I took but my intention was firm. As I looked up, thousands of stories flooded my head. Nana was a great storyteller, and ever since I was a little kid, she couldn't help but passionately tell me about Nana's adventures and mishaps as we made our way up to the bedroom.

As I entered the room, my body tensed up and my breathing got faster. It had been three months. Three months, one week, and two days since I was last here. I used to spend days in this place; looking through the window, imaging love stories and unsolved mysteries. I sat on the corner of her bed while Nana intensely played the piano and hummed made up songs and melodies. We devoured chocolate chip cookies while we mused about what it would be like to open our own bookshop and write for a living.

What a dream.

I got my first notebook in Nana's room. It was just like hers. Two-hundred and seventy-nine empty pages, ready to be turned into an ocean of words and emotions. I cherished every single one of the notebooks Nana gifted me. It was like a new chance to create something beautiful, to live a new life.

I have always loved writing. Maybe because it's the easiest way for me to organize my thoughts and express how I feel, or maybe because Nana showed me the power of words from a young age. To me, writing is like riding on a rollercoaster, completely uninhibited. Writing feels free and untethered. It feels dangerous but safe all at once.

I worked my gaze down the room and examined it carefully, but I didn't truly know what I was searching for. Maybe I was looking for answers; for closure. Or maybe I was looking for nothing and I just needed to feel close to Nana again. After a quick look around, an old empty shelf caught my eye. It was full of dust, and in the left corner, there was a small package wrapped in brown paper. Nothing else, nothing more. It looked intentional and it was perfectly wrapped. A white ribbon hugged the package, and it had a little "O" written on the side. An O for Olivia, my name.

I grabbed the package and cleaned the dust off of it. I immediately knew that she wanted to sit on the edge of the bed like I always did. As I sat down, a beam of light reached my face. It was warm and peaceful, just like Nana. When I opened the package it was empty.

"What?" - I mumbled in disbelief.

But as that last word fled my mouth, something slipped out of the little box: a white piece of paper. In it, there were some coordinates near my house. I immediately took out my smartphone and looked them up. It was an abandoned bookstore that we always visited.

I turned the piece of paper around and there it was, the sentence that changed my life: "An old bookstore for a brand new beginning".

I couldn't believe it.

My own bookstore.

And just like old times, I sat there, in the corner of Nana's bed, gazing out the window and dreaming about all the things that I was going to do with my newfound treasure.