Once upon a time (for that is how all great stories begin) in a land far, far away there was an old woman on her death-bed. Gathered around her were her grandchildren, Flu and Obi. They each kissed her lovingly on her cheek, for she had raised them from a very young age and they loved her, and they waited for her last words.
Grandma whispered to them the secret that she’d been holding for two decades, the secret they had always deserved to know, but she’d never found the right time to tell them. This was her last chance to tell them and she was determined not to squander the last breathes with sentimental words when such important information had to be told.
“Flu”, she coughed out, “the truth is you are not my granddaughter”
“Obi, I’m not your grandmother either”
Flu and Obi thought she was delirious so they tried to comfort her.
Grandma silenced them with a raised finger and repeated the idea. “Your real parents were in grave danger, so I took you in, but you must find them after you turn 21. You have one month from then to find-”
Grandma’s final word was ‘find’
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