I'm lying in my bed beneath the covers.
My grandmother tucks me in. As she leans over me, she blocks out the light from my bedside lamp, and her wild tangle of flame red curls threaded with silver is lit up from behind. A halo fit for an angel. I must be about four years old. By the time I was seven, gran's hair had turned completely white.
The memories that flicker through my dreams are soft and shimmering. Everything glows brighter than its real life counterpart, bursting with radiance, swimming in muted light.
"So, what will it be tonight my bairn?" She asks, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. "Sleeping Beauty? Rapunzel? Or maybe The Little Mermaid? It's been ages since you last heard that one."
Most nights I'm perfectly happy to hear any of the countless fairy tales my gran tells.
