Liam Perrin

“Socializing is exhausting,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like to talk about myself. And I don’t have strong opinions about things.”

“You’re a listener.”

She conceded with a shrug. “People have a habit of talking at me at length.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“You must learn a lot of secrets.”

She stared thoughtfully at nothing in particular. “I learn more about the people themselves.”

“Like what?”

“They like to talk about themselves. And they have strong opinions about things.”

He laughed.

She smiled. But the smile fled, and she stared at nothing in particular.

But now here was a rare fellow. He didn’t launch into a story about himself or inflict her with his opinion. He sat quietly and stared at nothing in particular. With her.

It was the best conversation she’d had for as long as she could remember.

“I want to write,” she said, “but I don’t know where to start.”

“I like to start at the beginning,” said her grandmother.

“Thanks. That’s helpful. No, I mean how do I get them there – to the other world? All the best stories have some kind of doorway. A wardrobe or a telephone box. A white-gold ring, a magic book, a secret passage on a train platform. Everything I think of has been done.”

Her daughter climbed onto her grandmother’s lap. “Tell us a story,” she said.

The grandmother leaned her head back for a moment then took a breath.

“Once upon a time,” she began, and they were transported.