Grandfather’s Fourth Letter
Evelyn,
Your letter has left me wondering what sort of granddaughter I have. When I rose and found it stuffed under my door with your initials on the envelope, I assumed the missive would reflect your usual, inquisitive personality and boundless enthusiasm. To be less diplomatic, I expected it to be an untamed mess of questions about every conceivable aspect of my story, questions that curved round the margins of the page due to their length.
I was so certain of this that I had reserved the afternoon, my favorite pen, and many sheets of paper for the sole task of answering that plethora of expected questions. Upon opening the envelope, though, I saw only one: “Are you telling the truth?”
Most children would not have asked that question. The Innocents would have believed my tale whole-heartedly until someone a little older or a little cleverer or a little crueler enlightened them. The ‘Grown-Up’ children would have said of course I am lying, but would have done so by politely designating my tale a “Fairy-Story.”
I thought you would fall into one of those two groups, Evelyn, as I certainly would have at your age. Forgive that assumption and let me also express my esteem. You belong to an exclusive club: you are one of the few who even think to ask the storyteller anything.
So your very forward question deserves an equally direct answer: yes, I am telling the truth. I have not nor will I ever lie to you, my dear. The shifting creature on the bridge of Stavelot, the battle, and the horrible visions that followed were all true events, an awful reality that made my heart falter.
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