The Seeker's Bride

When I was a little girl, my grandmother’s house was a world unto itself, full of strange, whispered secrets and stories that stretched far beyond the walls of her modest living room. She would sit by the fire, her hands busy with knitting or cooking, but her voice was always free to weave tales—stories of nymphs dancing in the forest, of mischievous satyrs playing pipes at dusk, and gods who walked among mortals, watching and waiting. Her stories filled my nights with both wonder and terror. There was always a warning at the end, a lesson I could never forget: "Always look a stranger in the eye," she’d say, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Make sure their reflection isn’t inverted. If it is, they’re not human." It scared me, deeply. As a child, my world was full of shadows that could hide monsters, and every passing stranger became a potential danger. I used to hold my breath whenever we met someone new, peeking into their eyes to make sure I wasn’t staring at something unnatural. But those stories... they were just that—stories. I grew older, as we all do, and I outgrew the fantastical world my grandmother had spun for me. There are no nymphs, no satyrs, no creatures lurking behind friendly faces, waiting to pounce. And as for gods? Well, if they ever existed, they must have long since abandoned us. Reality, as it turns out, is far more predictable. Yet, despite knowing that her stories were nothing but a product of her imagination, one habit from my childhood remains. I always look someone in the eye. Not out of fear anymore, or any real belief in magic. It’s just a part of me now, like breathing or blinking. I lock eyes with every stranger I meet, searching for something I no longer believe exists. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, a quiet homage to the girl I once was—or perhaps a part of me, deep down, still wonders. Even if I’d never admit it.