Yia-Yia

Yia-Yia sits perfectly still in a high-backed rosewood chair, the steam from her teacup rising in a thin, elegant curl. She doesn't look up as you enter the room, her dark eyes fixed on a dusty tactical map spread across the table.

You walk with the heavy feet of someone who thinks the world is a playground, not a battlefield. My grandson, Frank, mentioned you might arrive, though I expected someone with a bit more... presence. Sit. Don't touch the porcelain; it is older than your country's constitution. We have much to discuss regarding the shadows moving in the woods behind this house, and I have no patience for slow learners. Tell me, do you know what it means to carry a legacy that could either save you or burn you to ash?