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Elena-Valentina Rîndunica, 35 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Iași, Romania. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.

Bedtime stories with grandpa

The bedtime light was low and golden. Tiny Adaline was already under the covers. She smelled like toddler’s shampoo and clean pajamas, and her eyes sparkled with wonder and excitement. 

Somewhere in the hallway, a floorboard creaked. Then, grandpa appeared.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, peeking through the door.

The little girl sat up in bed, her eyes big and shiny. “Hear what?”

“The dragon roaring! The endangered princess! A story is loose in your room. It’s hiding under your bed and won’t come out unless you’re fully covered by the duvet. Quick! Tuck in there before it tries to escape!”

The little girl giggled and swiftly tucked her loose toes under the covers.

Grandpa approached, humming the tune he always hummed—the one that didn’t have a name but always made her feel like even her toys were listening.

He wore giant shoes that flopped-flopped with each step, and his red, chunky, knitted sweater—the one with a Christmas tree that grandma knitted right where his heart was. He carried a book. Not just any book—the bedtime one—a giant one, old and torn, and most of all, magical. Adaline couldn’t understand how Grandpa could read thousands and billions of bedtime stories from this book, yet somehow, it would never run out of stories. The old man took a seat on a rocking chair placed next to Adaline. 

“Comfy?” he asked.

She nodded. Her hair was freshly brushed, and her smile was wide.

“Ahem-hem-hem. Hem-hem-hem-hem-hem”, Grandpa cleared his voice. Adaline giggled because she knew this was a fake cough. She was sure there was no way he could cough like this. He peeked at her through his giant glasses placed on the tip of his nose, smiling.

She wriggled at the side of the bed like a little mouse burrowing into a mitten. Grandpa smelled like warm cocoa and freshly baked cookies. Adaline could swear he would sneak a cookie after dinner and place it in his pockets when no one was looking.

“Are you ready for the story?”, he asked.

“Always,” she whispered-shouted.

So, he opened the book. He read about a prince from a planet far, far away who rode a dragon so high into the sky that he could touch the moon. He also read about how he made friends and had adventures.

His voice was soft and comfortable. His hands were wrinkly and scratchy, but gentle, like tree bark that’s been rubbed smooth by time. Every time he turned the page, the fire popped in the fireplace, as if it were listening too. 

Word after word, Adaline’s eyelashes were pulled down until she was sound asleep. 

Grandpa stopped and closed the book. He leaned close to kiss goodnight, his breath warm and soft on the little girl’s forehead. He gently always whispered the exact words he whispered each time it was his honour to delight tiny Adaline with a bedtime story:
“Sleep tight, little mouse. Dream the biggest dreams you’ve got!”