Evie smiled, the corners of her mouth curling gently as she glanced at her grandmother. There was a softness in her gaze, a quiet reverence reserved only for this woman. The lines on her grandmother's face—etched deep from years of laughter, worry, and weathering the world—seemed to Evie like the strokes of an artist painting a life fully lived. They weren't just wrinkles; they were the chapters of a story Evie had grown up hearing piece by piece, in fireside whispers and quiet moments between chores.
She reached for her grandmother's hand, weathered and warm, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "It doesn't matter what I call you," she said with a small shrug, her voice like velvet. "As long as it comes from my heart, that's what counts."
The old woman raised a brow, pretending to scoff, but her lips betrayed her with a twitch of a smile. "You unruly child. You make it sound so beautiful when you say things like that."
Evie chuckled and leaned in to hug her tightly, resting her cheek against the frail shoulder that had once carried the weight of so much. Her grandmother still smelled of wild herbs and firewood, like she belonged more to the land than to any one place. It was the scent of home.
But even in the warmth of the moment, Evie noticed a flicker of sadness behind the old woman's eyes.
"You know," her grandmother continued, pulling back slightly, "when you were little, I used to try and teach you to say 'grandma.' I must've said it a hundred times in a single day, hoping you'd mimic it. But instead... you looked at me with those big eyes, smiled wide, and said 'Anny.' At first, I thought it was adorable. Special. Like a little secret between us. But then… you never stopped."
Evie blinked, surprised. "You never told me that."
Her grandmother looked away, her gaze drifting toward the trees that stood tall around them like old friends. "I kept waiting, hoping one day you'd say it properly. Just once. I wanted to hear it, to know you saw me that way. But I suppose... you had your own way of loving me."
"I didn't know it hurt you," Evie said, her voice low. "To me, 'Anny' meant something more than just a name. It meant comfort. Safety. You. I thought it was better."
A silence settled between them, the kind that didn't need to be filled with words. The kind that held decades of love in its quiet.
Evie straightened her back and gave a cheeky smile. "I am a cute and devoted child, after all."
Her grandmother let out a laugh, soft and full of affection, before her eyes followed Evie's gaze to the trees ahead. The woods were calm today, wrapped in a golden haze of late afternoon sun. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles and damp soil, and somewhere far off, a bird sang its lonesome song.
Evie sighed. "The woods feel different today. Peaceful. Almost... sacred. I like it here. It's like the world slows down and listens."
"They've always been that way," her grandmother said. "If you're quiet enough, they speak to you."
Evie didn't respond right away. Her smile faded, replaced by a faraway look, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than before.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "I wonder... if she hadn't died giving birth to me, would he have become the kind of father I needed?"
Her words clung to the air, heavy and tender, and for a moment, even the forest seemed to fall silent. Her grandmother turned to her, saw the way Evie's eyes stayed dry even though the pain behind them glistened like a thin film of glass.
"You can't carry that with you forever, child," her grandmother said gently. "Your mother's passing had nothing to do with you. She was already ill—frail as snow underfoot. The pregnancy only sped up what was already coming."
Evie looked at her sharply, her tone suddenly colder. "Then why didn't you ever speak of her with kindness? Not once have I heard you say anything gentle about her."
There was a long pause. Her grandmother drew in a breath, the air catching in her chest before she released it slowly.
"In the beginning," she admitted, "I didn't take to her. She was fragile, unsure of herself, completely dependent on your father. He did everything for her. Cooked, cleaned, cared for her without ever asking for thanks. I thought she was weak. Unfit. And when I told him as much... he took her away to Bergen. Married her without a word to me. I didn't even know until weeks later. I was furious. Hurt. I decided not to care."
Evie's eyes narrowed, but her voice was calm. "But you couldn't stay away."
"No," her grandmother admitted. "I couldn't. Two months passed. I hadn't heard from him. He was just a boy, too young to carry a family on his shoulders. I wrote letter after letter—four in total. Not a single reply. I almost gave up. But the fifth... that one was different. I swallowed my pride. Apologized. Told him I wanted to meet her properly. And finally, he wrote back. Said they'd come home."
She paused, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed over her lap. "When I saw him again, he looked... older. Worn. The lines on his face didn't belong on someone his age. And Laila, your mother... she wasn't what I expected. She was quiet. Polite. Still unsure of herself, but she had a calmness about her that I hadn't seen before. A sort of soft strength."
Evie leaned in, listening intently.
"I tried to teach her," the old woman went on. "How to keep a fire, how to boil water without burning the pot. Everything took twice the effort, and half the time it went wrong. But she was eager to learn, always saying sorry when she made mistakes. I resented her less and less each day. Because I could see how much your father loved her. And how much she loved him back."
Her voice softened even more. "And then she got pregnant. Oh, how we rejoiced. We thought it was a turning point. But the pregnancy... it drained her. Her body couldn't keep up. Sickness came early and stayed for months. She lost weight. Couldn't eat. Slept all the time. She barely spoke. The doctors kept saying, 'Wait a little longer,' but nothing improved."
Evie's hands clenched slightly.
"Then... like a miracle, she got better," her grandmother said, eyes glassy with memory. "Her cheeks had color again. She laughed, sometimes. She even tried to help around the house. It was never much mostly watching me and nodding as I worked but she tried. And your father… he was so relieved."
Evie smiled faintly. "That sounds like her."
"There was something odd, though," her grandmother added with a sigh. "She'd talk to herself. Or to someone I couldn't see. At first, it was quiet. Then louder. Sometimes she argued, other times she whispered like she was sharing secrets. And she started taking these long walks into the woods barefoot, no matter the weather. I think that's where you get it from. That love for solitude. That need to disappear into the trees."
Evie laughed, a bittersweet sound. "Maybe that's what she passed on to me. The quietness. The need to be somewhere that feels... untouched by pain."
"I think she gave you more than that," her grandmother said. "She gave you her heart. And her gentleness. And her stubbornness too, if I'm being honest."
They sat in silence for a while, the kind of silence that said more than any words could. The wind whispered through the trees. A leaf tumbled down between them and landed softly on Evie's lap.
"I wish I had more of her," Evie said at last. "More than just the way I like the woods or the quiet. I wish I could remember her voice. Her laugh. Even her scent."
Her grandmother pulled her close again, wrapping an arm around her thin shoulders.
"She's in you," she said. "In every word you speak kindly, in every moment you choose patience over anger. She's here."
Evie closed her eyes, letting her grandmother's heartbeat lull her into calm. The ache in her chest hadn't gone, but it had softened like a bruise that no longer throbbed, only lingered.
And even though she still called her "Anny," the love between them needed no translation.