Hesitant, I turned the knob of her grandfather’s study. The door swung open, revealing an antiquated room with beautifully maintained cherry wood furniture, wall-to-floor cases full of books, and several typewriters stacked in the corner. No one, not even me had ever been allowed inside the room before. It was one of those places like my grandfather’s youthful imagination where you’re not invited unless he said so. The only person allowed in was my grandmother, carrying trays full of home-baked snacks and hot meals during those nights grandpa wouldn’t come out. She was the only one he trusted.
I often wondered what he did in there and I might never know. After all, the two people who might know were gone. Sighing, I sat down on the leather chair in the center of the study. The chair had a deep groove in the middle from grandpa’s over-usage. Before me, a notebook lay open with a black iron-gall pen on top. I flipped through the notebook, hoping it would provide a clue and I found it in my grandpa’s tiny drawings and chicken scratch. My grandfather was a children’s book author.
A Response for Sunday Photo Fiction.