I wrote for weeks on end, hardly ever putting my pen down - only to sleep.

It was during my third week that I looked at my journal for the first time. Properly. Pages and pages of writing consumed its hungry leather binding, and I smiled with content, knowing that this story had come to an end.

I had completed my first real work. All that remained was a title, but that could come later, once I'd had a chance to reflect upon the world I'd created.

I read it through, and smiled to myself, relieved that I had not made any fatal errors. I hadn't repeated myself, and it certainly wasn't boring. There was no huge fight scene, but who's to say that's a necessity?

But still, no title sprung to mind. Was I experiencing writer's block? No, impossible when all of this beautiful wonder had spilled out onto the page only moments ago.

No, I just need an outside opinion.

Ever since I was very young, writing on the family computer, typing with one finger at about two words per minute, there was always one person that supported me. My dear grandmother.

She always tried to read over my work, always giving compliments, and only ever constructive criticism - and even then, very little. At that age, you can't really take it.

She was who I needed the opinion of. She would read through my work and help me decide on a title. She would do that for me.

That weekend, I caught the bus again, but this time to just outside town, where my grandmother lived. I knocked three times on the door, waited for an answer, then knocked again, four times, to let her know that whoever was outside was eager to come inside.

She opened the door a crack, saw it was me, and threw the door back, hugging me in her arms for five seconds or so. We didn't see each other much - her and mother never really got along.

Grandmother was my father's mother, and since they split up, they've had little to do with the in-laws. Mother always thought that grandmother would take father's side, but in reality, she was a very neutral person - she was a quarter Swiss, after all.

I explained my visit, and she was intrigued to hear of my writing. She put the kettle on, and read the first chapter as it was boiling. She then went to make tea, and whilst alone, I soaked up every last bit of my grandmother's house. The smell, the decor, the light streaking in through the typical 'OAP blinds'. Who knows when I'd be back here. I really missed spending time with other relatives.

The End

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