A small, silvery fish was swimming inside. Before Tessa could get a good look, the weather turned abruptly. In moments, dark clouds rolled in, and a light drizzle became a gust of chilling wind. Yellowed leaves swirled around them. The berries in her bowl, so fresh and appealing seconds ago, were suddenly covered in a fine layer of mold. An instant later, they crumbled to dust, which the wind snatched away. Another second, and the gray powder that was once ruby-red berries was gone.
Tessa looked at her grandfather in confusion. “What’s happening?”
The old man’s face grew stern. “Listen to me, and don’t waste any time. Come home, Tess. Before it’s too late. Please, come home to the country as soon as you can.”
With those words, her grandfather dissolved into fine dust. Like the berries, he was carried away by another gust of wind. Tessa cried out and woke up in tears.
Only her beloved grandfather ever called her Tess. He used to joke, “I’m George, and you’re my Tess. We’re practically namesakes.” She would have given anything to see him and her grandmother again, to hug them, to talk about everything and nothing. She longed to tell them how much she missed them.
The dream had been so realistic that it left Tessa deeply unsettled. She could almost still feel her grandmother’s touch, the strength of her grandfather’s embrace, the scent of herbs that always clung to him. His every gesture had been exactly as she remembered.
She was confused and frightened by the strange dream. Despite the odd coincidences in her life, she didn’t believe in mystical things like prophetic dreams, but she couldn’t ignore her grandfather’s plea. A nagging thought surfaced—that dreams you have on a Thursday night have a way of coming true. Though the anniversary of his death had recently passed and she had paid her respects, she reasoned that maybe he was asking her to visit his grave again. But why the urgency?
Still mulling over the dream, she went through her morning routine and headed to work. But she couldn’t focus. Typos and errors crept into her project; a task that usually took thirty minutes stretched to over two hours.
After working through lunch, she asked her boss for the rest of the day off, saying she had a family emergency. Tessa checked the schedule for the bus that passed by her grandparents’ town and raced to the station. She knew she had to hurry; her grandfather had insisted.
Fortunately, despite the nice weather that had extended the gardening season for many, there was a ticket available. Realizing the small town store might be closed by the time she arrived, Tessa stopped at a nearby supermarket. She bought a box of pasta, a few cans of stew—one of which she planned to leave at the cemetery as an offering—some of the old-fashioned butterscotch candies her grandparents loved, and a bottle of water for the road. She knew there were staples like rice and canned goods in the pantry, and potatoes in the root cellar, but it was habit. She never arrived at the country house empty-handed.
Tessa had been taught by her elders to always replenish supplies. During the years when most of their money went toward her grandmother’s mounting medical bills, this habit had been a lifesaver. When cash was tight, their well-stocked pantry meant they never went hungry while waiting for the next social security check.
Trying to distract herself from her gloomy thoughts on the bus, she opened the bag of candy and popped one of the sweet butterscotches into her mouth. The taste wasn’t quite the same, but it still took her back. When her grandmother was alive, she used to call them “penny candy,” and her grandfather would always correct her with a smile, “My dear, they’re butterscotches.”
Her grandmother would throw up her hands in mock exasperation and ask her, “Tessa, would you like a piece of penny candy pull-apart bread?”
The little girl would burst into happy laughter, then quickly stifle it, afraid of jinxing the moment. This playful argument was a regular ritual. Now, as an adult, Tessa understood it was a kind of game between two people who loved each other deeply. In all her memory, her grandparents had never truly fought. They bickered sometimes, but never with anger or insults.
And oh, how delicious her grandmother’s butterscotch pull-apart bread was! The transformation of simple ingredients into a treat was like magic, and she always involved her granddaughter. Her grandmother’s work-worn hands would form small balls of dough. Tessa’s job was to tuck a single butterscotch candy inside each one. Then her grandmother, praising her for her neatness, would arrange the dough balls in a pan. As they baked, they would puff up and merge into a single, glorious loaf. It was wonderful to break off a warm, gooey piece and enjoy it with a cup of fragrant herbal tea or a glass of rich, fresh milk.
For the last two years of her life, her grandmother was mostly bedridden and, of course, no longer baked her signature bread. When Tessa visited, she tried to replicate the masterpiece, following the recipe exactly, but it never tasted the same. Her grandma would take a small bite, praise it lavishly, and always encourage her. “It’s wonderful, dear. You’ve grown into such a fine homemaker. Oh, your future husband will be a lucky man! I’d love to dance at your wedding. Then I could pass on with no regrets.”
Tessa always tried to change the subject, thinking sadly of how hard it was for her elderly grandfather to care for his ailing wife and the homestead alone. She wanted to make their lives easier. Gradually, a modern washing machine and a microwave appeared in the house. To help them financially, Tessa switched to online classes, got a job at an architectural firm, and even took out loans, as most of her income went to medication.
She tried to visit every weekend. Sometimes she could tell with her eyes closed that they were approaching her stop. But occasionally, life got in the way: a rush project at work, or she’d get sick and fear infecting her grandparents. She had pleaded with them countless times to move to the city with her, but they always refused.
Her grandmother would say the same thing every time.
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