Just like everything else in this world, literature is ever-changing—fleeting as the wind. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. You can feel it like the shift of the wind as it caresses your cheek one moment only to pick up its pace to knock you over the next. Like how a light breeze builds up and slowly transitions into a hurricane with the strength of Hercules in wind form—or dies down completely with a single breath.

Instead of going against the current like one normally would on a particularly windy day, join me as we let the winds of change sweep us away into a tornado ride—not to Oz, but through Time. In this blog, we shall follow the story of two completely different young boys who have more in common than they think—more than just their names, the face they share, and the very blood coursing through their veins. Follow the story of how they both fall in love with a maiden who never dies—the daughter of the wind, whose song continues to be sung even as time itself pursues her.

Sit back, relax, and follow along on a quick-paced page-turner of a journey through time as it teaches them—and us—the true value of love, family, tradition, and life, acceptance, forgiveness, and change, all in one jampacked rollercoaster ride of a literary collection.

PS: This blog features 12 different genres of literature, all revolving around one main theme and storyline. Each chapter highlights one genre at a time, though it would be best to read the entirety first as a whole before breaking it down into each individual genre in order to indulge in the full experience. Enjoy! 😊

“Don’t even think about it, young man!” My grandmother chimes from the kitchen. How did she know? I haven’t even moved yet. And even if I did, how would she have seen it? 

I slumped back down the soft, worn-down, velvety couch. I say velvety because it isn’t actually velvet—I know my grandmother better than that. Just like everything else in this old rickety house, it’s most probably either recycled, reused, a cheap knockoff, made from scrap, or a combination of each. Grandma has a nick for that kind of stuff—turning old, undesirable bits and pieces into posh, lavish-looking articles. That’s also probably why I currently must share their attic with a bunch of ages-old, soot-covered crates and boxes that Grandma so passionately refuses to dispose of—she hates putting things to waste. 

I gave a loud, exasperated sigh—just loud enough to hear over the sound of the rain tapping on the window.

“I’m sorry, Calisto, but we can’t have you catching a cold. What would your mother say!” 

Nothing. She wouldn’t say anything, because she can’t. She promised she would call as soon as she got home. It’s been a week now. I knew it plays over and over in my head. I shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t have agreed to go with all the other children fleeing the war. I should’ve pulled her along—I could have. She would have passed as a child no more than 17. I could’ve said she was my fragile older sister. 

But I didn’t. How I managed to save the dog, I don’t know. But I wasn’t so lucky with her.

I froze on the spot. I didn’t even get to properly say goodbye or kiss her on the cheek. I just let myself get swept away with the trembling sea of orphaned and soon-to-be-orphaned children, all racing to get on the last train that would leave for the safety of the countryside. They all wanted to get as far away from the war as possible. All of them, except me. I wanted to fight. Not for my country—that was how my father died. No, I wanted to fight for my mother. I didn’t care if the whole world turned it’s back on itself, as long as she was safe.

But she’s not. I’ve learned to accept it the moment the train hit the curb and I could no longer see her beautiful—oh, how it was beautiful—face. Downcast and worry-worn, but beautiful. Frail and broken by the torments of this life, but all the beautiful still. Even as she cried, she was a goddess. There was something about those tears that gave her an eerie glow—like a bittersweet farewell. It was sweet with the happiness of sending me off with the promise of shelter from the war, but it was also bitter, because she knew it would be the last time we would ever see each other. 

And in that moment, I knew it too.

My grandparents didn’t. Or at least they pretended not to, for my sake. I appreciate all their concern—I really do—but I wish they didn’t treat me like a child so much. I am not a stranger to grief, and most certainly not to war, and I am well aware that where the latter exists, the other always follows. I’ve already wasted a whole week mourning the loss of something that was already gone before I ever lost it—now I am only concerned with how best to feed this ever-growing boredom in my wake. 

Or at least, that’s how I desperately wanted it to be.

“Even if we let you out now, you still wouldn’t be able to find the forest, you know.” Grandpa emerges from his study. “There would be a swamp in its place instead,” he chuckles. 

“I don’t mind a little mud in my boots,” I replied, greatly in need of something to do.

“Oh, but we mind it in our house, Cal.” 

I sunk deeper into the cushions, defeated. I wasn’t sure what stung more—my grandfather’s passive-aggressive retort or his calling me by my nickname. Only my mother used to call me that. I guess it was an effort to make me feel at home, but it only ever reminded me of the one I lost to a war I would be no part of.

“Don’t be so glum, child. Here—” he placed a large, ancient-looking, leather-bound book on my lap, about as thick as my forearm and so terribly covered in dust it shrouded us in a thin cloud as it gently dropped on my lap. Probably from the attic. Hadn’t it so conveniently disposed of its outer layer of dust into the air, I wouldn’t have been able to read the writings on the front cover: Children’s and Household Tales.

I must’ve made a face, because again, Grandpa chuckled at my annoyance. “Something to do until the rain stops.”

“I’m not a child, Grandpa. I’m already 16.”

“Oh, but take a look, boy.”

I gave him a look.

“Not me. The book!” Oh.

“I know what these children’s tales are, Grandpa.”

“Just take a look.” He had a big, toothless grin plastered on his face. Like he was the one excited about this. Like a child ready for a bedtime story. I conceded and sighed.

Grandpa stoked the fire by the hearth and cozied up beside me on the couch. Arche followed suit, sitting on his lap. As I opened the book, even more dust enveloped us. But it was a different kind of dust this time—cleaner than the dull grey of the attic. Enchanting, almost. It didn’t reek of age, too, unlike it did on the cover. I almost thought it sparkled in the firelight. 

It’s just my imagination. I shake the thought off as I browsed through the book’s table of contents. Familiar titles of familiar children’s stories. Snow White. Rapunzel. Hansel and Gretel. Puss in Boots. Cinderella. The Princess and the Pea. The Little Mermaid. I don’t understand what was so special about this book and these stories, but Grandpa pressed on. We began to read the first story in the compilation: The Frog Prince.

Early into the story, I began noticing little details I did not recall belonging in the story I’ve known growing up. Here, instead of kissing the frog, the princess throws him to the wall in disgust. I found myself intrigued and, soon enough, I was spitting questions here and there about each new piece of information I did not know before. We read on until midnight, with Arche asleep on Grandpa’s lap. 

When Grandpa himself couldn’t go on any longer, he left me with a more recent version of the Tales, one with the familiar stories I grew up with, but just as thick and dust-laden as the first. I spent the rest of the night poring over the texts, comparing, contrasting, and adding my own insights on the corners of each page.

— 

Days would go by without me seeing any daylight. I was so immersed into the texts that I lost all interest for going into the woods. Even on sunny days, I would sit outside under the shade of a tree only to read on further into the volumes. Sometimes my Grandma had to drag me out onto the porch just so I could get some fresh air, but I would still be reading the books. There was something about the older and more violent version of the Tales that entranced me. It was almost as if the mess of it all gave me a twisted sense of relief—a sort of escape. 

But not really. It was more like it took me back to the war. Sometimes I like to think this too was all just a story in the books—that I was merely reading an excerpt of someone else’s life rather than living it myself. Maybe I would be back in our old home in London the moment I shut the books. Maybe my mom would be with me again.

But that’s just the thing, she isn’t. 

So I keep reading. I read and I read and I read until my eyes are tired. I flip the pages and write until my fingers are filled with cuts from the old parchment and my knuckles are white. Even as I dream, I imagine witnessing the adventures of Puss in Boots in the passenger’s seat, or following along as Jack climbs the enormous beanstalk, or diving down with the Frog Prince into the deep dark well to retrieve the princess’s golden ball.

All to avoid the dark, haunting images of my mother slowly being engulfed by a fiery hell at the heart of warfare.

I also began talking to my grandfather a lot more. I don’t really recall what it was like to have a father around, but spending time with him made me feel like I did. We would spend days on end debating about and guessing why the authors decided to change which into which, why they removed or added a certain part of the story, or even why they decided to cross out entire tales from the final volumes. I didn’t know what it felt like to have a father-figure to turn to then, but now I do. And I like it. 

I would forever be grateful for the day my Grandpa decided to bring out that mouldy old book from the attic.

As days turn to weeks, and weeks into months, I fell more deeply into my passion for reading. It wasn’t just an escape now, but a search. More and more I craved them, reading and rereading until I was certain I’d gone through every detail I might’ve missed the last time. 

But I was never certain. 

I fell in love with the text just as much as the change I saw in them. As I conversed ever more frequently with my grandfather about each new discovery I made in the Map of Literary Change, I learned that the stories I have loved as a child were but mere alterations of the originally darker fairy tales that were once works of oral literature preserved in text. But as translation after translation and oral passage after oral passage took place—eventually giving birth to a multitude of versions for each story—there is now no one true universal version. As a result, there now exists seven written versions of each volume of the Tales alone, with the except of several other oral variations left unaccounted for.

And to think of all the books that exist in the world!

—

“Beautiful, isn’t she,” Grandpa whispers under his breath as we sat on the porch, staring out to the horizon after finishing yet another story. At first I thought he was talking about Grandma, but she was nowhere in sight. Then I thought he meant the raging colours of the sunset that enveloped everything in shades of pink, orange, and gold—but it wasn’t that either. He must have sensed my befuddlement, because he then added, “The books, I mean. Literature in general.”

Literature. I’ve only ever looked at each story as individual pieces—never really as a collective whole—until now. But I couldn’t agree more. Beautiful, indeed.

I don’t think I could ever thank Grandpa enough for what he has brought into my life the day he dropped that dusty old book onto my lap. He hadn’t just given me a pastime; what he had given me was far greater—something that has changed my outlook in life forever. With it he not only introduced a means of escape, but a whole new world entirely. Better yet, he had opened my eyes to see the same world in a different light. He didn’t just give me a book—he gave me hope.

Suddenly all thoughts of the war receded and were locked up in the farthest corner of the back of my mind…

Only to be unlocked once more one unfaithful night in the middle of September.

Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane. Tap, tap, tap—it was calling me again.

Faster.

Louder.

It wasn’t just a mere drizzle now.

It was raining. Hard.

I woke with a start. I realized I fell asleep on the desk in Grandpa’s study. Thunder roared and lightning flashed through the windows, so much so that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up at the amount of static present in the air.

But it wasn’t just that.

I peeked through the door into the living room to see Grandpa in his night clothes, panic in his eyes. He was yelling something so fast he swallowed his words. In my groggy state I failed to comprehend. I was on my way to meet him up the stairs when Arche bit the hem of my pyjamas, causing me to trip whilst taking an entire bookshelf down with me. Books were sent flying all around, piling on top of me as they landed.

I barely brushed a few papers off my head when Grandpa managed to blurt out:

“NO! STAY—"

And then I understood, but it was too late. What I originally thought was the grumbling of thunder turned out to be something else.

 

That’s when the bombs fell.

Yet she outlives us all.

Ever changing, ever growing,

But never growing tall.

She sings a song that does not change,

But changes the mind of all who listen.

A maiden born of talk and tale,

Merely to speak would be to call her presence.

Faster.

Louder.

It wasn’t just a mere drizzle now.

It was raining. Hard.

Lightning.

Thunder.

Then the bombs came.

 

I woke with a start. The bed was wet with something that must have been my own sweat—or worse. I rolled over to check the alarm clock on the bedside table. 3:05 AM, 29^th of June 2018. 

Same dream. Again.

It’s been years since Grandpa first told me of that unfaithful night, a story I’ve memorized by heart since I was a little three-year-old. Back then, I only saw it as a fantasy—a mere superhero story, where my own grandfather was the main character who ever so conveniently evaded the hands of Death. As I grew older, however, I began to realize that there was some truth in it—although minimal. Learning about the 2^nd World War in school made me realize that in the real world, it isn’t always simply good versus evil—and more importantly—good doesn’t always win, and most especially not in war. I’ve learned that in life, nothing is ever won without loss.

I was thirteen when I decided I didn’t want to believe Grandpa’s stories anymore.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying my grandfather is a liar. I simply think he was merely exaggerating a few (if not all) details in his story. For, you know, entertainment purposes? Whatever reason he may have had for doing so, I know for certain that no human could have withstood an airstrike the likes of which he describes—let alone a mere little boy. Some things are just better off packed up in a box labelled Childhood Fantasies and left in the Imagination section of one’s mind. This is one of those things. 

Until two weeks ago, when Grandpa got admitted.

That’s when the dreams started coming.

It’s always the same. First a light drizzle starts to fall. Then it turns into full-on rain. The rain falls harder and harder with every heartbeat. Then the lightning comes in a single, blinding, white flash—bright enough for me to catch one last glimpse of everything I know and love before they all slip out of my grasp. Then the thunder roars. Total darkness. The world stills for a split second, then it’s bombs away.

Then I wake up, cold sweat trickling down my spine.

I’m used to the visions now. After two weeks of seeing the violent images in my head every night, I’d say I’ve grown immune to every possible horror movie the film industry has to offer. It’s not the dreams themselves that give me the chills—it’s the feeling I get after having them. The feeling of dying repeatedly. Dying in the night, only to be revived once more in the daylight—and dying again when the darkness comes to collect me.

I shake the feeling off, splashing my face with cold water from the sink.

I don’t get to go back to sleep afterwards. So instead of wasting time lying in bed at yet another failed attempt to do so, I decide to take a walk. As I put on a pair of worn-out sneakers, I get a glimpse of myself from a tall standing mirror by my closet. A pale, fragile boy with bright hazel-brown eyes stares back at me, hair all ruffled up in one big birds’ nest of an entanglement. I’m already 18, but I’m so weedy I could pass for a tall 15-year-old. They say I look like Grandpa when he was my age—so much so that they named me right after him—but I highly doubt it. If Grandpa is who he really says he is, I’d suppose you’d have to be physically fit in order to withstand what he says he’s gone through. I doubt I could even take a basketball to the stomach.

A warm summer breeze greets me as I walk out the front steps of our apartment, placing a soft kiss on my cheek. I plugged my earphones on and began to take a stroll aimlessly, letting my feet take me wherever they may go as I let my thoughts wander off into an abyss of never-ending rain and gunpowder.

—

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking or how far I’ve gone when I began to get the feeling that someone was following me.

I took out my earphones and paused to take in my surroundings. I was in a whole other side of town—one I don’t recall ever being to before. The sun still hasn’t gone up. I’m too paranoid to take my phone out and check, but I’m guessing it was around half past 4 in the morning. There doesn’t seem to be anyone following me. In fact, not a single soul was astir—not one but my own. 

Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling still. 

It was almost like the world itself had its eyes on me. Every light gust of wind felt like a warm breath on the back of my neck, every sound a footstep closer to its target—me. I resumed walking. To where, I did not know. All I know and care about at the moment is to get out of here—and fast.

I thought I heard someone call my name, but I dared not look back. I instead picked up my pace.

It’s all in my head. It’s all in my head. Keep walking.

It was almost like—no. Keep walking.

Was… Was the wind talking to me? No. Impossible. Keep walking. Faster.

I broke into a run.

—

I lost track of time. I was running so hard for so long I almost forgot what I was running from in the first place. Almost. The sun was already peeking from the horizon when I finally reached our building doors. I skidded up our front steps and into our apartment, not daring to linger outside any longer. As I entered, I went straight into my room and locked the door, flopping onto my bed face-first. I was panting so much I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. Every breath of air felt like my lungs were burning. Man, I’m really not cut out for all this physical activity. 

Just then, a heavy weight fell on my chest. It had only occurred to me that I was never sure if I had lost whoever—or whatever—was following me. I might even have led them—it—right to our house. I didn’t think—for once in my life I didn’t think. Just when I had to.

The long run was finally taking its toll. I really must’ve overexerted myself, because now I couldn’t feel a muscle. All I know was my eyes were getting heavier and heavier with each passing second.

Everything fades to black.

—

It’s that voice again.

No, please stop.

This is just a dream. This is just a dream. This is just a dream.

I rose up so fast I fell off the bed with a ‘thud’ loud enough to be heard from miles over. Coincidentally, the numbness I had been feeling prior decides to disappear so conveniently just as I collided with the floor, sending one massive shock of heightened pain all throughout my entire system.

“Goodness, Cal! Are you alright?” Mom. I recognized her voice immediately. I can’t believe I actually let myself get terrified by a mere trick of the wind. I would laugh at myself, if only I wasn’t in such pain.

“Geez, Mom. Could you maybe knock next time?” 

“Oh, I did, honey, but you were sound asleep and the door was open, so I decided to intrude.” Funny, I thought I locked the door.

“What’s the urgency?” I ask, all while trying to get up without straining myself even more.

“It’s your grandfather. Doctors say he doesn’t have much time left. He says he wants to see you.”

That’s weird. We aren’t really as close as we used to be ever since I stopped awing at his stories. Still, I have to see him at least once before he goes, right? After all, he is my grandfather.

“Be ready by noon. We’ll be waiting in the car,” Mom says before leaving me to get ready.

—

It wasn’t a long drive to the hospital where Grandpa got admitted. Sitting in the car with nothing else to do, I look out the window. It was around this area where I thought I heard my false pursuer.

Just then, a thought hit me. Could it be? No. That’s impossible—it was a female voice that I heard. Almost like a little girl’s. It couldn’t have been Grandpa trying to call me, could it? 

I push the thought away. What am I thinking? He’s not dead.

At least, not yet.

The thought was so surreal. The possibility hadn’t fully sunk in until I was standing right outside of his hospital room, not daring to step any further—and it wasn’t because of my sore feet. Even though I’ve lost touch with my grandfather so many years ago, I still couldn’t bear to see him like this. Thanks to his stories, I’ve always pictured him as a strong, healthy man, even as he reached his old age. In fact, I’ve never truly stopped seeing him as a hero—not quite a super hero, but a hero still. Despite myself, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to see him put down his cape. Not yet.

A nurse emerges from inside the room, a grave look on her face. 

“You may see the patient now,” she says, looking past me over to Mom.

“Go on now, Cal,” Mom gives me a nudge. I suck it up and take a step forward.

“Here goes nothing.”

The door was directly facing his bed, so I should be able to see him first thing as I enter—except that there was a big curtain around his bed, hiding him entirely from view. As if the suspense wasn’t enough already. 

“Grandpa?” I whisper.

There was no reply. The wind came in through an open window by his bedside, ruffling the curtains in a way that made it sound like they were whispering—almost gossiping about the events of the day. A steady beeping sound fills the room, along with the whirring of several machines connected to the body behind the curtain. Ironic, how people build machines to keep other people alive. At least the beeping is stable. Relieved, I step closer. I took a deep breath, mustering up all the courage I could get to finally pull back the curtains that separated me from his moribund body.

“Callisto,” he whispers, grinning a toothless grin at the sight of me. Even in his fading state, he still has the power to conjure one of the brightest smiles in the world—one of the real super powers Grandpa has always possessed. Even then, he had always been so optimistic. He had lost everything to the war—everything except his will to live. Sometimes, when I’m feeling positive (which is very rare for me, but it does happen), I like to think that maybe it’s the secret to how he survived the airstrike. He was no superhero, but he has powers all the same. I wish I could smile like he does; smiling like he actually meant it.

But this one didn’t reach his eyes.

He knows. They don’t tell him, but he knows. Grandpa is smart like that. And I know better than to ask him how he is.

“Don’t you look dapper, Grandpa,” is what I say instead. He gives a breathy chuckle, and his smile inches closer to his eyes for a fraction of a millimeter. 

“You came.”

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear any of my stories anymore.” His smile slowly fades. Oh, how wrong he was. 

It’s true, I stopped believing in them, but it’s also equally true that I loved them all the same. The stories he told me as a kid consist the majority of my childhood, and although I cease to believe them, they still hold a significant part in my life. As much as I hate to admit it, the box of Childhood Fantasies I’ve tucked away is truly stored in the Memories section of my heart, no matter how much I try to push it into the back of my brain. 

Of course, I could never bring myself to say all this.

“Liking and believing are two, very different things,” was all I could spit. His smile returned, however small.

“Good, because I have something for you.” He fumbled up and nearly fell off of his bed trying to reach the drawer of his side table. He was able to grab hold of a thick satchel from inside the drawer, but it soon fell to the floor, clearly too heavy for him in his state.

“Here, let me help you,” I say as I stop him from overexhausting himself, picking the pack up myself. There was a hint of excitement and anticipation in his eyes.

“Well, open it up, boy!” He finally blurt out.

“Grandpa, you really shouldn’t have—”

“No, I insist. It’s something I’ve been meaning to give you for a long time now.” He had an eager look on his face, like the content of this satchel—whatever it may be—was the only thing keeping him going. The machines were just for show. “Open it, child,” he urges with a grin.

I follow suit to find a huge lump of an ages-old book—so old it could pass for one of Harry’s wizarding books from Hogwarts. Despite its age, however, it looks well-preserved, with its leatherback cover still attached to its spine as if it came fresh from the publishing house. In fact, the only way you could tell it was ancient was through its cover design—font, art and all—and the smell. You know, the distinct smell of old books covered in dust and mould. Except this book didn’t have those, just the smell of them.

Another indication of its maturity was the fact that the embossed cover was so worn out I could barely read the title anymore. Thankfully, Grandpa got me covered.

“Children’s and Household Tales, collected, compiled, and edited by the Brothers Grimm.” 

“Thank you, Grandpa, but—” 

Before I could say anything more, Grandpa cut me off. “I know you’re not a child anymore, Calisto,” he said with a weary smile. “I know because that’s exactly what I said when my grandfather gave this to me when I was just a boy like you. The stories have been a big part of my boyhood, you see, and almost the only things that kept me going through the war. Now I’m passing them down to you mostly for tradition, but I do hope you give them a try. I’m sure you’ll find them…” he paused for a second, before finally adding, “worthwhile.”

“Thank you, Grandpa,” I replied, no buts this time. And I meant it. 

“Would you mind reading me a story, child? The Frog Prince, it’s my favourite.” 

I couldn’t say no, so of course, I did. As I began to read, he closed his eyes and smiled.

—

When I finished, Grandpa was smiling—but not his usual ear-to-ear grin. This one was softer, almost solemn. Like he was at peace with his circumstances, at peace with the world. Like he was ready to leave.

“Take care of her for me,” he whispered, eyes still closed.

“Of course,” I reply. 

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he says, more to himself than me. Then I realized he wasn’t talking about Mom.

“Grandpa, who are we talking about again?” I ask in confusion. He opens his eyes to look at me face to face.

“She is but the one maiden who never dies,” he replies in a low whisper—almost entrancingly, puzzling me even more.

Grey and black. Grey fills the sky; black, everywhere. Hair. Clothes. Shoes. Mom’s eyes. The dark circles around them. Umbrellas all around. It’s raining again, but not the turbulent kind. It’s more solemn this time—almost respectful. Almost as if it knew the occasion it was intruding upon. As if it were paying tribute with each drop. As if each drop was a tear.

As if the sky cried out for him, too.

The only thing that stood out from all the gloom was his coffin—a bright white too pure for this muck-stained world. Pure, like the soul that had now left the body it shelters within its white wooden walls. Just like the heart that had drummed its last beat. 

I don’t cry. I knew this was coming. I’m prepared.

But at the same time, I’m not.

I want to cry. Scream out. Curse this cruel world. 

But I don’t. 

I can’t. It’s like the words refuse to come out, forming an ever-growing lump in my throat—the kind of pain that hurt so much you couldn’t do anything about it. The kind that puts you in a full body-bind spell—you can’t do anything, but you can see everything. Feel everything, down to the minutest twinge of grief. 

Ironic, isn’t it? I spent the entirety of the past couple of years trying to avoid him. If it weren’t for the dreams, I probably would have forgotten all about him by now. I’m a bad grandson, I know. But it’s not really him that I’m avoiding—it’s mostly my shame. I know I hurt him when I refused to hear his stories anymore. I was a harsh kid, calling him phoney for the stories he told me so passionately. I should really have been much nicer to him, he always seemed so enthusiastic when narrating. There was always that bright sparkle in his eyes when he talked about it—like he remembers every minute detail of that unfaithful night. It was almost as if he meant every word. 

I know I shouldn’t have broken his heart that badly, especially when those stories meant the world to him, but it was already too late when I realized what I had done. I had already hurt him, and I didn’t have the guts to face him after that. And for five long years I avoided him—up until just before he died. Sometimes the universe thinks it’s funny like that. What’s even worse was that he hadn’t really changed how he saw me, even after everything. All these years I wasted trying to save face when there was none to save in the first place. Had I not let my pride get the best of me, I wouldn’t have had to bear all this guilt with me now. Grandpa truly has one of the few kindest hearts in this world. 

He even got me a present—even when I should have been the one to apologize. I never even got to. 

Life is unfair like that.

Rain kept pouring from the color-bleached sky and over to the now unrecognizable green of the countryside. Apparently, it had been my grandfather’s last dying wish—to be buried in the land from which he encountered Death once and survived. Grandpa believed he did not escape—only postpone the inevitable. He knew he had to meet it once more, and this time finally let it take him.

The heavens continue to cry enough for the both of us—as if to compensate for my inability to express grief. It, too, mourns for the life it could not take. It was also raining that night—when the bombs fell. But the sun still managed to miraculously shine upon my grandfather then. Even on his deathbed, the sun was shining. 

Even now, the rain began to cease as he was lowered to the ground—like it knew it had no power here. Sunshine followed him even as he left this life.

The rain could not touch my grandfather. Not now. Not anymore.

This is wrong. I should be heading back home now.

I suddenly become aware of a small pocketwatch among the books from the last shelf I ran through—something I don’t recall being there earlier. I pick it up to see that though the main clockworks were still functional, the date on it was stuck to the 3^rd of September, 1943. Strange.

I get the weird feeling that someone—something—was watching me.

A gust of wind enters the room, bringing me back to my senses. Apparently, this house wasn’t as brand new as it seems—the wind had busted one of the windows from its hinges with a loud crash. I should have taken this as a sign to leave, but I didn't.

Come here, Cal. I'm right here.

A book flips open with the wind, catching my attention. The pulsing attraction returns, growing stronger with every beat of my heart—beating with it. I subconsciously put my feet in front of the other, towards the direction of the pull.

Towards the open book, its pages continue flipping though the wind was long gone.

The book is now within arm’s reach. The beating grows faster, stronger. It was almost like Jumanji—only it felt like the pounding came from within me. Ready to rip me open. Waiting.

I hesitate for a moment—then I dive right in.

The tip of my fingers brush the book, and I’m sucked into a whirlpool.

“Take care of her, child,” he repeats before I could answer.

But I never get to.

The low beeping transitions into one long flatline.

It’s been three days since Grandpa’s burial, and a little over a week since his final breath. My parents decided it would be best to spend the rest of the summer holiday at the countryside—for “family bonding” or whatnot.

It’s been three days since I’ve last seen a glimpse of the world.

My parents have been trying so hard to convince me to go out and explore the world outside of our motel room—but that isn’t the world I’m talking about. I mean the digital world. A world of video games, memes, videos, and social media. My world. The world of today. A world that’s so currently so inconveniently inaccessible in a remote village in the countryside. You’d think that the internet would have taken over every nook and cranny of the surface of the earth by now.

Well, think again.

“Come on, Cal, please,” my mother pleads once more. “It’s too beautiful a day to waste lying around in here again.”

“There’s nothing to do inside and outside, Mom, and I’d rather do nothing comfortably on this bed,” I bounce back, tired of the tiresome exchange that has now been our daily routine for the past few days.

“Come on,” she sighed with a pause, before continuing with the brightest smile you could ever see—she had an idea in mind. “You never know, you might get a signal out there.”

She had won, and she knew it.

Suddenly I find myself trekking along a narrow road at the edge of the forest, just between it and a vast expanse of country fields. How I let myself fall for my mom’s old trick, I don’t know. What I do know is that I really was bored, and that I really needed the fresh air. Not even half an hour of walking and I’m already out of breath. I decide to take a break to catch my breath, leaning onto one of the fence bars that marked the beginning of the treeline. 

I immediately regret the decision as the piece of rickety old wood collapses under my feeble weight. And as if things could not get any worse, I soon learn the purpose of the fence—the forest ground begins to slope beneath me as I tumble down into a shallow ravine, taking me further down into the woods. I hit my head on a tree stump just as I reached the forest floor.

The greenery fades to black.

—

I wake up in the middle of the forest, disoriented as to which direction I had come from. The sun was still high up in the sky, which only meant two things—either I haven’t been out too long, or it’s been a little past twenty-four hours since I managed to hit my head and lost myself in the woods both at the same time. I can’t decide which is better, because a) my parents would not have to worry over sickly 18-year-old son, but b) I would not have to worry about how to get home because they would have organized a search party for me by now and would probably be close on track.

I push myself up against a tree to test how bad I had hurt myself. I could stand with little difficulty and, although walking felt like balancing on a waterbed, it was doable. I grab a sturdy branch that had fallen on the ground and use it as a staff to support myself. If a day hadn’t passed yet—which was highly unlikely, considering how well I’m still able to carry myself—it would be best to try to find my way back to the motel myself before dark.

I check my phone for directions, but it was dead. Great.

“Don’t panic,” I say to myself. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper through gritted teeth, though no one could hear me. 

I take my time to assess my surroundings and try to get a sense of where I should head to. I know I fell from a sloped cliff, so it would be logical to head upwards. There’s just one problem: this part of the forest where I so casually decided to fall into turns out to be conveniently situated in a deep gully—two ways lead upward. The sun was towards the forest when I rested on the broken fence just on the right side of the road from where I was strolling, which meant I should climb the west slope to get back on track. 

Easy enough—except for the fact that the sun was already entirely up at its peak.

With no means of neither finding direction nor communication, I decide to go wherever my gut takes me. I’ve already run out of battery and of luck—hopefully my sense of direction would still suffice.

Funny, I went out to reconnect. I ended up disconnecting even more.

—

I walk for what felt like hours on end, drawing circles on the once untouched forest floor. It turns out my sense of direction came along with the Luck subscription package.

I was deep in heart of the woods now—so deep that fog and mist began to envelop around me. The trees have transformed from small orchard trees to large, towering monster trees, with their canopies wide and thick enough to block out most of the sunlight. I’m pretty sure it was still the afternoon, based on the little specks of light that managed to come through the heavy awning, but you could never be completely sure in a place like this—sometimes the mist plays tricks with your eyes.

It was nearing sundown when I reached a clearing in the woods. 

Here, I could see the sky again. After hours upon hours of grey and green, its raging colors was a welcome sight—a comforting warmth in the midst of my predicament. I stand in awe for a while, appreciating the bright yellow, the hazy peach, the fiery orange of the sun, and vast calmness of blue. I stand in a trance—jaw gaping at this wondrous beauty. If I weren’t so lost, I would enjoy this even more. I might even stay here a while longer.

Then again, if I weren’t lost, I wouldn’t be enjoying this at all.

I guess there must be beauty in loss—and beauty in lost things. Maybe I was lost to find beauty where I could not find my own.

I give myself a few more minutes to marvel at the sky. It was like my eyes were glued at the sight; I couldn’t bring myself to look away. To see such beauty still existing in a messed-up world forged by conflict and war—to think that it should be permitted to coexist takes my breath away.

But the sky wasn’t the only thing I saw. 

There, at the opposite side of the clearing, was a bright red roof barely emerging from the treetops. 

I blink my eyes—maybe they were deceiving me.

Still there.

Yup, there’s a roof embedded in the green. At first I thought I was hallucinating, maybe from fatigue, but there was no mistaking it—there was a house in the middle of the forest, at the very heart of it all.

I know I should be focusing on finding my way home, but there was something about this rickety old house that caught my attention—almost like it was calling me, drawing me to come near.

I try to shake the feeling away, only to find that my feet have already taken their own accord, leading me straight towards it. There was nothing I could do but let curiosity lead the way.

There was something eerily strange about this house—other than the fact that it stood isolated in the middle of a great forest, alone and disconnected from the world. Maybe it was the fact that it’s supposed to look old—but it’s not. Even as it was wrapped in a thick density of undergrowth, it showed no signs of age.  In fact, it looks entirely brand new, as if it was newly built to house a family that had just moved into town. And yet, its overall design looked ancient—like something from an old fantasy book. Like a two-storey version of Snow White’s cottage or the Three Brown Bears’.

Cal.

The calling continues. I know I should turn away, but I can’t help it. I work my way into the house. Why was the door not locked? It seemed abandoned. Even stranger.

The interior looks even weirder: an ancient pile of mixed-and-matched pieces of furniture, like an old abandoned attic of unused junk—except this was the living room. The entire house seemed like it’s been DIY-ed by an old granny, knitting and stitching away on her rocking chair by the porch. Each chair and each pillow were uniquely embroidered with patches of mismatched silks—possibly to cover up moth-eaten holes. The oldness of the house was even more evident on the inside that from outside, although things seem to have been well-maintained. Not a speck of dust was in sight.

Heck, this is even cleaner than our apartment in the city—and people actually live there!

One thing that really unsettles me, though, (aside from every other thing about this house) was how a jar of freshly picked flowers stood by the window sill—unbothered, untouched, and very much unwilted.

A chill runs down my spine, but I continue on.

Come here. Come to me.

—

I lose track of time. While exploring the house, the calling grows ever-greater as I near a large double-door opening just below the staircase. The pull grows stronger and stronger with each step I take toward it, causing my heart to bang harder and harder against my chest—as if it were ready to break free from my ribcage any moment. The beating continues until it reaches a climax at the threshold, then ceases immediately as I step into the room within. 

I find my way into a small old study—its walls lined with shelves, its shelves filled with rows upon endless rows of books. Ancient books, tons of them More books than I had ever seen in my life combined. 

Overwhelmed, I completely forget myself, my dilemma, and most especially, my intrusion. I rush forward to gape at the expanse, not bothering to worry about trespassing on other people's property. I head to the nearest shelf of books and run my fingers through each of their spines. 

It’s horrible, but it’s also somewhat calming.

You know, like drowning. At first you struggle for your life, holding onto that last breath of air in your lungs. Then just when you can’t hold it anymore—when you finally slowly release it—you find calm. In that split-second window just before everything turns black, you find it. Acceptance. Calmness. Peace.

I think this is it. My whole life flashes before my eyes.

Except, it’s not my own.

The beating—it’s coming back again.

Tap, tap, tap, it goes with every beat of my heart.

A light drizzle starts to pick up.

Drizzle turns into rain.

Rain… Why would it be raining underwater?

It turns into a storm.

A blinding white light flashes before my eyes—this is it. I close my eyes, accepting death. Awaiting it. 

Just like Grandpa did on his death bed.

 

But it doesn’t come.

Thunder comes in loud bursts—thundering from within my own chest. It grows louder and louder, enveloping me in itself. I don’t understand how it’s possible for sound to travel this fast and this loudly through water. It shouldn’t be able to—but it does so anyway. 

The thunder grows louder.

Suddenly I’m struggling again. The visions come back. Bits and fragments slowly piece their way back together. Lightning flashes. An old study. Darkness. Light. Grandpa running down the stairs. Darkness. Light. A dog pulls me back, tripping me. Darkness. Light. Books pile all over me. Darkness. Thunder turns into something else…

My heart slows to a near stop. I close my eyes shut. I know what comes next.

I expect the bombs—but they don’t come.

 

The visions stop. The thunder stops. Everything stills.

It’s that voice again—my pursuer from the alley. It’s the same voice, but it’s also different. It’s calmer this time—almost soothing. Comforting. 

I hesitate—but I do it anyway.

As I open my eyes, I expect to see a woman—a girl—but I don’t. Instead, a male figure comes into view—a boy, about my age. Tall and thin like I am, but a lot more muscular. Almost as if he was battle-worn from a young age. He turns around, and my jaws drops.

Then it hit me.

“Grandpa—!” I scream—completely forgetting where I am. Water fills my lungs, suffocating me. It’s real this time. I can’t breathe. 

He’s fading. I try to reach out, but he’s drifting away. Darkness slowly envelops him.

Grandpa, come with me! I can save you! I want to shout.

"Don't be scared, boy. I'm here," he says, pointing at his right chest—his heart. "Right here. I will be with you. I will hold your hand. Always."

Please come with me.

“Goodbye, Calisto,” he says with that solemn smile of his.

No, Grandpa, please—

“Remember your promise.”

The bed was wet again—and it’s definitely not just because of sweat. I take a minute to catch my breath, staring up at the ceiling. I’m back at the motel again.

It was all a dream.

It took another minute for me to be able to feel my entire body again, and when I do, I realize I’ve been holding on to Grandpa’s book in my sleep. Weird; I don’t remember reading before bed—or anything before, for that matter. 

The book was opened on the last page of The Frog Prince—the last I’ve ever read with Grandpa. Only this time, I noticed something different. Something I don’t recall ever being there when we first read it together. This time, there were writings all over the margins—annotations and such. Probably Grandpa’s. But the peculiarity doesn’t just end there—the story itself seemed a bit off. Little bits and pieces seemed to have been edited into the story I grew up with as a child, transformed into more graphic, violently vivid versions, where the princess throws the frog to the wall and his servant’s heart bursts into pieces.

No wonder I had nightmares.

A notification from my phone snaps me back to reality. I thought it died last night, that’s weird. Not like things haven’t been so for the past few weeks. I should be used to it by now.

Oh, right. It died in the dream. 

I’m still shaking—whether from the cold or from fear, or both, I can’t tell—but I manage to get up. 

I check my phone to see a text notification from an unknown sender. 

Who could it be? And more importantly—how did they manage to contact me in this barbaric pigeonhole of a countryside?

I decide to open the text, not wanting to have to guess anymore.

At first I thought it must be Mom, but why would she use an unknown number?

There was a long pause before they could answer, the ellipses that served as the typing symbol appear and disappear from the text screen.

Ouch!

My eyes widened in shock. Did my phone just say ‘ouch’?

I moved closer to pick it up, only to throw it back again in surprise.

"Could you please stop that?!"

There, inside my phone, was a girl. Not just a girl—the owner of the voice. The one that’s been haunting me this past week. It came from her. And she’s inside my phone.

And as if to confirm this, she decides to pop up out of thin air. From my phone. A girl had just come out from inside of my phone. I'm so horrified I might as well collapse any second.

“What? Haven’t you seen a hologram before?” she asks so nonchalantly, as if what she did was just a normal, every-day thing to do. I'm so horrified I might as well collapse any second.

“What are you murmuring there?” she asks with a firm voice. I feel my knees buckle before I lose consciousness for the nth time.

Everything fades to black. Again.

I wake up in bed. Again. I can’t tell if this is still a dream or not—and I’m too afraid to find out.

“About time you woke up, Calisto,” says a familiar voice.

I shut my eyes tight. This is just a dream. This is just a dream. This is just a dream.

“You aren’t dreaming, dumbo,” she says with an exasperated sigh. 

I was about to faint again, when she added, “Don’t you dare black out again.”

“It’s my life. I can faint whenever I want,” was the only defiance I could muster. I sound like a petty child.

Her only acknowledgement was knitting her brows even closer together. Not even a smile. 

“I can’t believe I have to work with a child,” she says after a while, with such seriousness so unfitting of her youthful appearance. Between the two of us, she looked more like the child. Who are you and what do you want from me?

“From what I recall, your grandfather told you to take care of me—not the other way around.”

“What do you know about my grandfather?”

“Oh, child. Has your grandfather not mentioned me to you?” she asks, puzzled.

“Okay, first of all—I am not a child. Second—I don’t even know who you are, how am I supposed to—"

“I am the whisper in the wind.”

“What?”

“Listen to me,” she says with pressing gravity. She pauses, waiting for me to take this seriously. A glint in her eyes tells me I should, so I do.

I am the voice you hear—I know you hear me.

I am the wind; I whisper to it, whisper with it—

I am within it.

I am your every breath, your every word, your every song—

As was I your grandfather’s.

I am the breath that always catches up,

No matter how fast you may outrun me.

I am the words you speak and the ones you hear

And the ones you see—though you cannot see me.

The song that does not lose its rhyme,

I am the voice in you that never runs dry.

I am the tale that never has an end—

Only a beginning—the end of the end.

I am the wind—ever-fleeting, ever-shifting.

You cannot see me, but you can feel me—

I am here.

I was here since creation was created—

Not with the creation—but the construction of it.

I was here when they took my songs from the wind and replaced them;

Placed my home in their hands and onto their lips.

They carried me with their mouths ‘til they could bear me no more,

Then transferred me onto leaf and onto bark and then tablets of stone—

Until finally, I exist tattooed on paper.

As winds of change have swept me, I continue to be swept—

Now living not in tablets of stone but those of metal and of glass.

I am here—even and especially now.

Here, as you read this—and within it.


_{If you liked this, go check out Munimuni's hit single, Marilag, now on Spotify! https://open.spotify.com/track/5T9cG5K84xMtSpZroVMXAr?si=ZzBWKwRERiincqB-q_QpjQ}

It took me a while to piece things together, but when I finally did, everything made sense. Or at least, to me, they did.

The whisper in the wind is the voice that’s been following me around this whole time. She whispers to it, with it, and within it—meaning she is one with the wind, her voice is carried by it. As was I your grandfather’s—he knows her. She was important to him. She’s the one he asked me to take care of, not my mom. I am the voice in you that never runs dry. I am the tale that never has an end—this means that she is timely… No, timeless. Could it be that she’s immortal? That would explain her contrasting youthful appearance and serious demeanor...

“You’re the wind,” I say, sure of myself.

“Nice try, but guess again, boy,” she says with a smug smirk on her face—the first time I actually see her lay back a bit. 

Not with the creation—but the construction of it.She was at the creation of creation… the writing down of—

“History?”

“Guess again.”

“This has to be technology,” I announce. What else could it be?

“You’re getting close, but not close enough.” She enjoys this—seeing me suffer.

I take my time to think, after all, that’s all I’m ever good at. It takes a while, but I finally recall a piece of Grandpa’s original riddle: She sings a song that does not change, but changes the mind of all who listen. Her words are fixed and objective, but the meaning behind them is subjective.

I’ve got it for sure this time, there’s no mistaking it.

“You’re Literature, aren’t you?”

“Letty for short,” she grins, genuine this time—not teasingly. “Nice to meet you, young Calisto II.”

You know who I am—you’ve been reading me this whole time.

I am the wind—I was born in it. Born from the talk and tale of lords and lads, damsels and fools, from the oldest caveman to the youngest newborn child, I came to be. Anyone and everyone with the capability to use words has the power to give birth to me. 

I am the ink that flows from the minds of those who seek escape and expression. I am the daughter of the heart and of the brain, of emotion and of wit. I bring comfort to the weary soul, release to the aggrieved, freedom to the captive, knowledge to the hungry, relief to the burdened. I take whatever is given me and give back sevenfold. The pain that you pour out to me, I shall transform into pleasure. Whatever stain your heart may hold, I shall color anew. 

The path of history, I have walked since the beginning. Without me, it would cease to exist—forgotten and forever lost in translation and in time. Just as I was created for the transcript of history, so shall I create it. Just as I was shaped by human interaction, so shall I reshape it.

A single breath may mean two things—so listen carefully. The songs I sing will never change, but they change the mind of those who heed them. What one man thinks may differ from the other, their interpretation might contrast. But that is the beauty of it, don’t you think? For what is this world with no diversity, no variety, no color—always stagnant, no thrill will ever last.

I am but the one damsel that never dies—I am immortal, your lives I will outlast. Time itself may chase me, but it will never catch me, for I run with it. I will exist so long as I am needed. I will change with the winds of change—not fight against it. As the world evolves, so will I.

As the human mind has the power to move me, so shall I move it. Man may think to use me to manipulate one another, but in truth, it is I who manipulates them. I have the power to start conflict and to end it. Your weapons, your guns and swords I find useless. They may fight your battles with you, but it is only with a word that a war is begun—and only with a word that it, too, shall conclude.

I am not a woman—I am but an aspect of this world. I have no one true form, but I take the form of what’s best suited. I am powerful, regardless of length. A long speech may inspire and behold, maybe even spark a revolution—but it only takes a single word to mend a shattered heart or broken relations.

I am not a woman—yet I ought to be. I am strong. Independent. Influential.

I am everywhere. I am timeless. I shape the way that I am shaped. I am Literature.

Cortana from the Halo game franchise

Not through this text—within it.

It, in fact, is not a she;

It’s Literature, you see.

You’re bound for failure if you pursue,

For you can’t find her—

It is her who finds you.

Like a little flower waiting to bloom,

This is how you should see her.

Don’t force it to open—

It will only wilt if you compel it too soon.

A caterpillar, waiting to grow,

In its cocoon, it patiently waits.

Like this, you should forbear,

You should persist, you should endure.

Literature is not something to easily acquire—

It is a gem that should be mined, cut, and polished.

There is no easy way to it,

It should be practiced with desire.

Sometimes, even the best of suitors cannot win her.

If she inspires you not, 

It would be best not to incur—
For the key to her heart is to wait for her.

But just because you cannot have her,

Does not mean you should not love her.
Please, love her all the same.

Love her still—

Love her more.

Love her until

She loves you again.

I sit alone in my room, staring at the computer screen—my soul source of light in the quiet of the dark. Not a soul is left astir—none except my own. I sit in silence, nothing but the sound of tapping keyboard keys fill the air. 

It’s the day of the deadline. I sit back and stare at the masterpiece that I have created—the greatest of my works thus far. 32 pages worth of drafts. 11,905 words in total. 12 literary genres, all in two weeks. The greatest I’ve ever worked on—but far from the best.

I shouldn’t have crammed. I would have done much better, I know I would. Still, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished in such a short span of time. Considering how slow and specific I am when it comes to my work, I know I’ve done the best I could—what with all the other schoolwork I still had pending. 

I love writing. It has always been one of my passions since I was a child. I would always make up silly stories about characters I’ve seen on TV or read from other literary works. I’ve also always had a colorful imagination, imagining myself as one of the main characters in my stories. There has always been a piece of me in each of my works—that’s what made them unique.

As I grew up, developing strong emotions has led me to venture into the world of poetry and prose. Oftentimes, I could write page-long poems based off of one spur-of-the-moment feeling I would have at a given time and circumstance. These were my best works—the ones born from raw and unfiltered emotions, the ones that truly came from the heart.

Often, I think of my works as plants that I must nurture. Not just my literary work—all work in general, especially the art-related ones, the ones that hold my deepest passion. This is probably the reason why it takes so long for me to compose my pieces—I hate to rush their growth. I want to be able to water them daily and see them slowly grow little by little.

But sometimes, a little dry season comes. Just like in nature, it’s inevitable—it will happen sooner or later. It’s during those times that I struggle with deadlines the most. I’d hate to turn in mediocre work—work with no heart in it. Literature, for me, is a form of expression, of release. It is a venue to free a surplus of emotions—it cannot work if there is none to release. Same goes for any form of art; one cannot create if one is not inspired. Creation is senseless if it serves no purpose. Art without heart is only eh.

The gardener cannot water his plants if he himself is running dry.

Yes, it feels wrong, but sometimes it cannot be helped. Instead of thinking of it negatively, I take this as another opportunity to hone my skills and polish them even more. With this, I learned to create good work under pressure and lack of inspiration. I learned to create from scratch.

Good work, not great—but I’ll get there soon.

I love writing, and I learned to love it even more. I was stressed, but I was also happy to be able to work on things that spark my passion and artistry. I am not content with my work—I don’t think I’ll ever be, but I am grateful for the platform for growth.

Rest assured that this will not be the end of my literary journey—but only another big step in the beginning.

A gardener can always refill his watering pot, and so I shall.