By: Shrestha Samal
Every Saturday afternoon, Mum and I drove through the busy street markets to visit my grandpa. I always knew we were getting close when I spotted the little brick house with the crooked white fence and the bright red roses blooming in the front garden.
People always said I was Grandpa’s twin. We shared the same smile, the same laugh and, according to Mum, the same love for stories. I used to roll my eyes whenever she said it, but secretly, I loved hearing it.
Grandpa’s house wasn’t fancy. The paint on the walls was cracked, the front gate squeaked every time it opened, and the old mailbox leaned slightly to one side. But to me, it felt like the warmest place on Earth.
The moment I stepped inside, I was welcomed by the spicy aroma of butter chicken drifting from the kitchen and the gentle ticking of Grandpa’s old clock that had been hanging on the wall for over twenty years. Family photos covered almost every wall. There were pictures of Mum and her sisters when they were children, faded black-and-white photographs of relatives I had never met, and dozens of pictures of our family smiling together over the years.
“There’s my favourite storyteller!” Grandpa called, opening his arms with a huge grin.
I laughed.
“Grandpa,” I teased, shaking my head, “you’re getting too old. You’re the storyteller, not me.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass compass. It was scratched and worn, but he carried it everywhere. As he spun it slowly between his fingers, he winked.
“No,” he said with a smile. “Not yet.”
I never understood what he meant.
After afternoon tea, we always played one game of chess before story time. Grandpa insisted he was unbeatable, but somehow I managed to win almost every week.
“Oh dear,” he laughed dramatically after I captured his queen. “Looks like the student has become the teacher.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Maybe you’re just getting old.”
He placed his hand over his heart.
“Ouch! That one hurt.”
Even when he lost, he always smiled as though spending time together was more important than winning.
When our game was finished, Grandpa settled into his old wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace. The chair creaked softly as he leaned back. He patted the seat beside him.
“Ready?”
I nodded and sat down.
He smiled warmly before beginning the story I knew by heart.
“Once upon a time, there was a young sailor who dreamed of finding an island that didn’t appear on any map…”
I sighed quietly.
The sailor.
Again.
I’d heard this story so many times that I could almost tell it myself.
Every Saturday, the sailor packed his little wooden boat, sailed through giant waves, followed the stars across the endless ocean and searched for the mysterious island hidden beyond the horizon.
Every Saturday, I interrupted.
“Grandpa, you’ve already told me this!”
He simply smiled.
“I know.”
“So why don’t you tell me a different story?”
He looked at me over the top of his glasses.
“Because this one’s important.”
“But why?”
Instead of answering, he gently tapped the compass resting in his hand.
“Every journey needs a guide.”
I frowned.
“I still don’t get it.”
He chuckled.
“One day you will.”
As the months passed, little things about Grandpa began to change.
Sometimes he forgot where he had left his glasses.
Once he spent ten minutes searching the house for his favourite mug before Mum quietly pointed out that he was already holding it.
Another Saturday, he accidentally called me by my little sister’s name before laughing.
“It’s this silly old brain of mine,” he joked, scratching his head.
We all laughed with him.
But deep down, I noticed Mum wasn’t laughing quite as much anymore.
There was one thing, however, that Grandpa never forgot.
The sailor.
Every Saturday, without fail, he remembered every chapter of that story.
Until one afternoon.
Rain tapped gently against the windows while the fire crackled in the fireplace. Outside, dark clouds covered the sky, but inside everything felt warm and peaceful.
Grandpa reached the most exciting part.
“The sailor finally found the island…”
I leaned forward eagerly.
“…and…”
For the first time ever…
He stopped.
The room fell silent.
Grandpa stared into the fire.
His smile slowly disappeared.
His eyes looked confused.
“I’m sorry…” he whispered.
“Where was I?”
I froze.
Grandpa had never forgotten the story before.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled.
“The sailor had just followed the brightest star.”
For a few seconds, Grandpa simply looked at me.
Then his face lit up.
“That’s right!” he laughed with relief.
“I knew you’d remember.”
For some reason…
Those words stayed with me long after we went home.
The following Saturday felt strange.
For the first time in years, Mum didn’t remind me to put on my shoes.
There was no drive through the busy markets.
No squeaky front gate.
No smell of butter chicken drifting from the kitchen.
The house that had once been full of laughter now felt quiet.
Too quiet.
A few days later, Mum sat beside me on the couch.
She didn’t speak straight away.
Instead, she gently took my hand in hers.
I could see tears filling her eyes.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“Grandpa passed away peacefully this morning.”
For a moment, the world seemed to stop.
I wanted to say something.
Anything.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, tears rolled silently down my cheeks.
I kept thinking about last Saturday.
About the unfinished story.
About Grandpa smiling and saying,
“I knew you’d remember.”
The funeral was held a week later.
Friends, neighbours and family filled the small church.
One by one, people stood to share their favourite memories.
Some spoke about Grandpa’s kindness.
Others remembered his terrible jokes that somehow made everyone laugh.
His best friend smiled as he said,
“He could turn even an ordinary afternoon into an adventure.”
I smiled through my tears.
That was exactly who Grandpa was.
When everyone had finished speaking, I noticed something resting on top of Grandpa’s photograph.
His old brass compass.
The same compass he had carried every Saturday.
The same compass he always spun between his fingers while telling stories.
“Every journey needs a guide.”
I could almost hear him saying the words.
Weeks passed.
Although life slowly returned to normal, Saturdays never felt the same.
One afternoon, Mum and I visited Grandpa’s house to help clean.
Dust floated through the sunlight as we carefully packed away his belongings.
Every room held another memory.
His rocking chair.
His favourite mug.
The chessboard still sitting on the little table exactly where we had left it.
My heart ached.
While Mum sorted through the kitchen cupboards, I wandered into Grandpa’s study.
Books filled every shelf from floor to ceiling.
As I carefully moved a stack of old adventure novels, something caught my eye.
Hidden behind them was a small leather notebook.
Across the front, written in Grandpa’s neat handwriting, were two simple words.
For Shrestha.
My hands trembled as I slowly opened it.
Inside were pages filled with beautiful handwriting.
Tiny drawings of sailing boats.
Maps.
Seashells.
Stars.
Even little sketches of the mysterious island.
It was the sailor’s story.
Every chapter.
Every adventure.
Every sentence Grandpa had told me over the years.
I smiled as memories came flooding back.
Page after page, I read until I reached the final chapter.
But instead of the ending…
There was a folded envelope.
I carefully opened it.
Dear Shrestha,
If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t finish my story with you.
You always asked why I told the same story every Saturday.
The truth is… I wasn’t trying to help you remember the sailor.
I was hoping the sailor would help you remember me.
People leave this world one day, but the stories they share never have to.
Every story carries a little piece of the person who tells it.
That means whenever you tell this story, a little part of me will still be sitting beside you.
Remember my compass? I always told you every journey needs a guide.
Well… your journey is just beginning.
So I’d like you to finish the sailor’s adventure yourself.
Every storyteller tells the ending differently.
That’s what makes stories magical.
Love always,
Grandpa.
By the time I reached the last line, tears blurred the words on the page.
As I gently closed the notebook, something slipped onto the floor.
It was an old piece of paper.
I picked it up carefully.
It was a drawing.
A faded crayon picture from Kindergarten.
Two smiling stick figures stood beneath a bright yellow sun.
One was much taller than the other.
Across the top, written in messy five-year-old handwriting, were the words,
“Me and Grandpa.”
I smiled.
Then I turned it over.
On the back, Grandpa had written one final message.
The greatest story I ever knew wasn’t about a sailor.
It was watching you grow.
I couldn’t stop the tears.
For all those years…
Even while Grandpa had begun forgetting little things…
He had never forgotten me.
That evening, my little sister climbed onto the couch beside me.
She looked at the notebook resting in my lap.
“Can you tell me a story?” she asked.
I looked down at Grandpa’s brass compass, which Mum had quietly placed beside the notebook.
I picked it up.
The little needle slowly spun before pointing north.
I smiled.
I opened the notebook.
“Once upon a time,” I began softly, “there was a young sailor who dreamed of finding an island that didn’t appear on any map…”
As I spoke, I could almost hear Grandpa’s warm laugh echoing through the room.
When I finished, my sister looked up at me with a smile.
“You’re a really good storyteller.”
For a moment, I remembered Grandpa’s words.
“No… not yet.”
I smiled through my tears.
For the first time…
I realised he had been wrong.
I wasn’t waiting to become the storyteller anymore.
I already was.
Stories don’t end when the storyteller is gone.
They continue in the hearts of the people who choose to tell them.
And every Saturday, whenever I open Grandpa’s notebook and begin,
“Once upon a time…”
I know he’s listening.
The End.