“The Fireflies Night”
The first time I truly understood magic wasn’t from a book ; it was from my grandmother, Ekaite, on a hot  night when I was 10 years old. We were at her house miles away from the city lights, surrounded by tall palm trees. Ekaite was a storyteller, with head filled with wisdom and the mischief of a child. 
That night, the power had gone out, and the only light in the house came from a kerosene lamp flickering in the corner. The darkness didn’t bother Ekaite; she said it made things more interesting. “Do you know why the fireflies glow?” she asked. I shook my head, eager to hear another one of her tales.
“They glow because they carry pieces of the moon,” she said. “The moon cannot shine everywhere, so it breaks itself into tiny shards and scatters them across the earth. The fireflies gather them up and carry the light wherever they go.” 
It was a simple story, yet it made me interested. Ekaite smiled and stood up, pulling a silk scarf over her silver hair. “Let’s go find them,” she said.
We walked into the fields and Ekaite’s footsteps were steady, her bare feet knowing the path as if it were an old friend. I stumbled after her, clutching her hand, half scared of the dark, half thrilled by the adventure. And then we saw them.
The fireflies lit up the field like fallen stars trying to rise back into the sky. They flickered, their golden light pulsing with an otherworldly rhythm. I stood frozen and shocked. It was as if Ekaite’s story had come alive.
She released my hand and whispered, “Catch one. But be gentle, they’re carrying the moon’s light, remember?”
I carefully reached out to one of the glowing creatures. When I opened my palms, it sat there, it kept shimmering like liquid gold. Amma knelt beside me, her face illuminated by the firefly’s glow. “See?” she said softly. “You’re holding a piece of the moon.”
We stayed there for what felt like hours, the fireflies flying around us. She told me more tales about the spirits of the trees and the wind that carried secrets. Each tale seemed to real to me which made me scared 
As we walked back to the house, with the firefly still glowing in my hands, She said, “One day, you’ll tell stories too. And when you do, remember this night. Remember the light.”
Years later, my grandmother passed away, and her house in the countryside became a memory to me. And till this day I battle with nostalgia anytime I pass her house. But her stories stayed with me, as did the fireflies. Every summer, I find myself chasing them, trying to hold onto that fleeting magic.