I watched from a distance while my grandma and grandpa fished on their lake in the backyard,

but one thing confused me, while Grandpa cast his line and watched his rod, waiting for the

anticipating tug of a fish. Grandma's gaze remained fixed across the lake, her head tilted

intently towards the dark fringe of woods.

I never saw her look at the bobbing lures. She didn't even seem interested in fishing at all.

I thought that maybe she just simply enjoyed looking at the trees.

But a nagging feeling persisted. There was more to her gaze than a simple love for nature.

It was summer break, and I decided to

spend it at my grandparents' house in Knoxville, Tennessee. They lived in a two-story house,

recently built in 2018. It connected directly to a lake, with a dock jutting out on the far right

side where my grandpa kept his base boat. My grandparents were a sweet

and quiet couple. They kept to themselves most of the time, living a peaceful life in their

little corner of the world. Every summer, though, my visits became a tradition. Grandma's

invitation was always an automatic, yes, her warm smile and gentle voice, a beacon calling me back.

There were countless things to love about my grandma, her kindness and generosity at the top of

the list. If I wanted something, it was usually an automatic, yes, from her too. But one of the things I truly cherished most was her stories.

Unlike Grandpa, who mostly stuck to tales of his time in the military, exciting stories filled

with bravery and adventure, of course, Grandma was a bottomless well of stories. Whether it was a

funny story from her childhood, a heartwarming story

about a kind neighbor, or a fantastical bedtime story that transported me to magical lands,

grandma always had one on hand. She was one of those special grandmas who could weave a story from

thin air, her words painting vivid pictures in my mind. Grandpa, on the other hand,

...