Gran left me her cottage at Willow Creek, a place of my childhood.
Stories, legends, surround the 100-foot waterfall and the pool below that Gran forbade us boys to swim in. I never told her that I had.
I settled in the cottage last week, with Gran’s stories in my head.
I made my way to the creek, each step felt like a pilgrimage, a homage to gran. Maybe this time I would catch a glimpse of the young girl who threw herself into the falls, never landing in the pool below.
Gran said the Water King took her midway down the Fall as his own. That on long summer nights she swims in the pool. Reminding myself it was just a legend, I wondered if I would be lucky enough to see her?
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