Chapter 1: Grandma’s Legacy
I used to believe snow meant quiet peace. Now it just reminds me of everything I cannot fix. One night, while folding paper stars in my room, I realized I had stopped believing in the magic they were supposed to hold. Snow had a way of pulling my thoughts backward.
Lately, missing Grandma seemed to be the only thing on my mind. Not college, not tests, not graduation. Unstarted applications sat open in tabs across my computer screen, waiting for a version of me I wasn’t sure existed anymore. An email popped up for a missed deadline to a college I forgot I was applying to. I closed the laptop a little harder than necessary. I pushed it away from me.
A sigh escaped me as conflicting emotions began to war within my brain. I sat cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the soft glow of fairy lights woven through jars lined across every shelf, every corner, and forgotten space. Jars of paper stars. More stars hung from strings across the walls and ceiling, each one paired with its own tiny bulb, turning my room into a quiet galaxy. Beside me sat another mason jar waiting to be filled.
A pile of colorful paper strips lay scattered across my comforter like confetti from an unfinished celebration. My fingers worked on instinct, folding and creasing each strip with careful precision. I paused mid-fold, a faint smile tugging at my lips as a memory surfaced.
“Come here, Hazel-bug.”
My grandmother’s voice echoed softly in my mind: always warm, always certain. I could see her clearly: sitting in her favorite chair by the bay window, winter light stretched across the fine lines of her face. Her gray hair was pulled into a loose bun, knitting needles set aside for a thin strip of yellow paper. I was seven, swallowed by one of my grandfather’s old sweatshirts, my legs tucked beneath me as I climbed into her lap.
“What are you making?”
“Wishes,” she said, holding up the finished star.
Its crisp edges caught the light, casting tiny shadows on the worn armrest of her chair.
“When you write a wish on the paper and fold it into a star, it stays safe forever. One day, when you need them, you’ll have a whole sky of wishes to guide you.”
“Like real magic?”
“Maybe not magic you can see,” she said, brushing hair from my face. “Sometimes believing in something is its own kind of magic.”
“Can you teach me?”
I was already reaching for a strip of paper. She showed me patiently as my small hands struggled with each fold. My first attempts were crooked, crumpled things that barely held shape. Frustration would rise in my chest, but she would only smile, smoothing the paper flat again.
“The best wishes take time, Hazel-bug. Don’t rush. Let the folds find their place.”
By the end of that afternoon, a dozen stars scattered across the coffee table between us. When my grandfather came home, his face lit up.
“Our Hazel-bug’s first wishes,” she said proudly. “She’ll fill jars with them one day, won’t you, sweetheart?”
“A whole sky.”
Nearly twelve years later, that promise still lingered. I glanced at the mason jar beside me, already full to the brim with stars of every color. Each one held something I had once believed was important enough to preserve. Some I remembered clearly. Others were just colors now: memories I could no longer fully reach. A notification on my computer broke through the stillness. I barely glanced at the deadline reminder before looking back down, finishing the star in my hand and placing it gently into the jar. I closed the lid.
On this star I write get into college. A place I once dreamed and worked towards. Now it seemed like a distant memory just barely out of reach. It joined the rest with a soft shift of paper against glass. It had been almost a year since Grandma passed, nearly three since Grandpa. Mom tried her best, hospital shifts stretched long enough that most evenings belonged to me, and to this room of quiet constellations. I kept folding stars because stopping felt too much like saying goodbye. A knock at my door startled me.
“Hazel?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Dinner’s ready, hon. Come down before it gets cold.”
“Be right there.”
“Try not to spend all of your time in your room Hazel. It is a Friday night. You should text Zoe. You should go to a movie. I will pay for your tickets and popcorn.”
I felt bad for the groan that escaped my lips. Mom was simply trying to help. Her footsteps faded down the hall before I moved. I hadn’t even heard her come home. I hadn’t heard the front door open. I had been so lost in thought. She seemed more cautious when talking to me since grandma passed. As if she might say the wrong thing.
Mom had started cooking simple meals instead of full course meals. Grandmas favorite blanket disappeared of the chair in the living room and now resided on moms bed. The irony is my phone dinged as she was walking away. I glanced down to see Zoe’s name flash across my screen.
Zoe: Are you okay Hazel?
I did not answer it. Zoe is my best friend but right now I just wanted to be alone in silence. Another text from Zoe appeared on my screen.
Zoe: Hazel please answer.
I could not stand another Friday night watching a movie that I would not pay attention to anyways. Zoe and I always went to the movies on Friday when we could afford to go. I always looked forward to spending the weekend with Zoe, now going out just felt pointless.
Looking at the jars of stars felt like reaching for something I could no longer name. Something not quite real, but not entirely gone either. Not real magic. Just the kind you feel when you want something to matter. I stood and reached for the lamp, hesitating before flicking it off. Darkness settled over the room. Only the jars remained lit, like a quiet constellation waiting for direction I didn’t yet know how to give. For the first time in years, I couldn’t think of a single wish worth folding. I reached for the door. Keep wishing. For a second, I could almost hear Grandma. One day, Hazel-bug, you’ll remember.
