Molly Keating loves her grandfather, and is the only member of her family to spend time with him anymore. When his condition worsens and he winds up in the hospital, she feels the blame is hers, and tries to help out however she can. But a trip through his old notes reveals a past she knows nothing about, and, of all things, another world.

A world that can be found through dreams, that the skilled can enter with more than just their minds. Here not all is as it would seem, and dangers and wonders about that would make Alice wish she had dropped acid.

It falls to Molly to follow her grandfather's notes and take a journey through the Isthmus Gate to find this other world, and rescue the part of him that is still trapped there.

Note: This is a NaNoWriMo 2014 project.

"Molly, honey, I'm sorry. I don't have time today," her mother said. Of course she didn't have time today. She didn't have time any day.

Molly almost jammed the cancel button on her cell phone. She wished for something as satisfying as slamming the receiver down on the cradle, like in those old movies she watched for class. But throwing down an iPhone... no. Not even to be mad at her mom.

"Yeah, Mom. Sure."

"Now don't be like that."

"Like what, Mom?" She knew she was being a pain in the ass right there, but didn't care.

"You know... ugh. I love your grandfather very much, dear. I-"

Now she did really want to throw the phone. "Right, Mom. You could try showing up sometime. You've bailed on me every time we were supposed to go to the home five of the last six times."

"Molly, that's not fair."

"Yes it is. It's the truth, Mom."

"We'll talk about this!"

She wanted to ask when, perhaps suggest at their next so-called dinner with her mom's 'boyfriend', Peter. Instead Molly punched the cancel button and resumed her walk. She pushed out of the dorm lobby, ignoring the looks from a few of the other students in the lobby.

It was a short walk from McMahon hall to the nearest bus stop. The autumn wind nipped at her, so she wrapped her scarf up a little tighter. It was an old, well loved, knitted scarf that had originally belonged to her grandmother on her mom's side. She'd been gone a long time, most of Molly's life. About all she remembered was a kindly sensation and happy warmth.

The phone rang. When she saw her mother's picture on the icon she hung up. It rang again, and she did the same. Then a Facetime request popped up. She turned the phone over to airplane mode, plugged in her earbuds, and turned on some music.

At the bus stop she sat and waited, trying not to shiver too much. She waited the allotted time, tuning out most of the world and thinking. Was she right to be this upset at her mom? Maybe. But a lingering doubt kept nagging at her to turn the phone back around and call her mom back.

She was about to when her playlist turned over to 'The Gambler', and old song her Grandpa had liked a lot. She remembered him singing along to it in the car once when she was staying with him. Kenny Rogers was old country, but she dug it a little, and kept the phone just as it was.

The nursing home was a bright, cheerful place on the outside. All clean yards and manicured shrubbery, and perfectly maintained. It probably wasn't fair to call it that, they preferred 'senior living center', but it's what the place felt like. The staff knew her well, and acted delighted to greet her. She took it more or less at face value.

Walking the halls, however, is what really made it feel like a nursing home. She passed several of the familiar doors. There was Mrs. McMilligan, still laying on her side, her TV up too loud. Mr. Bradford sat in his chair in the mid-hall social area, nodding listlessly at her as she waved hello. He always smiled back. Her mom thought it was a leer.

"Hey, Mister B. How are ya?" she asked as she walked. His nodding exaggerated and he chattered a string a syllables. The nurse said he'd never taken his post-stroke care seriously, and had never recovered his speech.

Nurses moved about with brisk efficiency, a few of them smiling back as she passed. She stopped at the nurse station for her grandfather's wing. "Afternoon, Sandy. How's my grandpa?"

"He's doing good today, Molly," replied the nurse on duty. "He was pretty chipper this morning and insisted on a walk. His condition is probably interfering a little. He insisted we go through the garden."

That again.

"Did he say which garden this time?"

Sandy, a matronly blonde, put her chin in her palm and shook her head.

"OK, thanks." She smiled at the nurse and continued on down the hall. Her grandpa's wing was up several floors and looked out over city on her side of the hallway. Down two floors was what passed for a park on the property, closed over with shade at this time of day, but in no way would it pass for a garden.

She stopped at his room peeked in.

His bed was turned to look out the window. Her first thought was that they'd need to close the shades before the sun started showing in.

"Hey, Granda," she called. She knocked on the door frame and walked in, slinging her pack off her shoulder. "How are you?"

He slowly pulled his eyes off of the window and turned his head toward her. It was an old and weary gaze, she thought. When she drew old and weary, she drew his eyes. Several moments passed with a blank expression before the eyes lit up. "Ah, Molly."

She dropped the bag and leaned in for a hug with an ear to ear grin. He gave as good as he got.

"What brings you out this way, little girl?" he asked when they parted. She pulled a chair up to his bed and sat down, crossing her legs. "And it's Daideó to you, sprout."

"It's Granda, not Daddy-O. Next you'll want me in a poodle skirt and a sweater." She leaned back and took a good look at him. The smile took years off, she decided, and added some liveliness back to his bluff features.

"Don't be mocking my Irish, lass."

"Granda, you're as Irish now as my dad. The real one, not that impostor Mom's seeing."

"Now Molly..."

"Please, don't."

He laughed, a rueful smile on his face, but stopped with a cough. He waved her off as it subsided and she sat back down. "I'm fine, girl. Just getting old."

"Do you need anything? A glass of water or something?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a beer in that knapsack, would you?"

"Granda!" she protested.

"What?" He held up one hand in surrender.

"Just tell me no one else is sneaking it in for you."

"Molly, dear. You're the only one who visits me."

She reached out and took his hand, looking down. It looked so frail now. She remembered how strong her grandfather always seemed. Like he could hold up the world. "Mom won't be here today. She said she's busy."

He reached out with his other hand, resting it on hers, waiting until she looked up to meet his sad smile. "It's okay, lass. You're here, that's good enough for me."

She smiled back, and felt a tear slip loose. He patted her hand.

"So, show me some new art. It's been a few days, have you got anything new?"

She nodded, disengaged and pulled up her backpack. It was probably better to call it a messenger bag, it was big enough for that. She fished out a large folder that had several plates clipped into it, each an especially stiff piece of paper with either a sketch or a painting on it. They flipped past all the pieces she'd shown him before.

"Oh, that's a good one," he said right before she reached the new pieces. She tried to keep any disappointment off her face. She'd shown it to him four days before, and he'd said the same thing.

It wasn't new to her, not these last several months, but it still hurt to see that he lost memories like this. She let him look at the portrait she'd drawn of a dream a few weeks back.

The woman in the painting looked out with sad, brown eyes. They were larger than one would think, almost giving the impression that it was a character from anime. Her garb was unclear, it could be a shirt, blouse, or dress. She looked away from the viewer and out a window. The room was dark and indistinct, but outside was a field and hill in a riot of colors that looked like Bob Ross had dropped acid.

"She looks so familiar," Granda murmured, one hand reaching out as if to trace her cheek. Molly didn't stop him, didn't say that yes, she looked familiar because he'd seen the painting, but he stopped anyway, pulling his hand back and frowning. "What's her name?"

"Don't know, Granda. I saw her in a dream a few weeks back."

"A dream, eh?"

Molly nodded. With his assent she flipped the page to the next piece. Together they looked at several sketches and quick paintings. She blushed profusely when he grinned at the life drawing in the set. That was Adwaya, a student on visa from India, and he had a body that just begged to be drawn.

"Well, he's a handsome one. All right, all right," he laughed, letting her turn the page. She knew she was blushing, the heat ran across her ears and cheeks.

"Boyfriend?"

"Granda!"

He laughed an patted her hand again. "Sorry, honey."

"I forgot that one was in there," she grumped.

"Something else then," he said, nodding to the book.

They flipped to the next plate and she smiled. She remembered this one, and hoped he did. She sat back to let him look at it on his own. A landscape piece looked back at them. It was another twisted color one, the greens too vivid, the blues just a little off to be normal, flowers an absolute riot of color. A sheer gray cliff loomed in the back, piercing clouds that shifted hues from hazy gray to a fluffy blueish white.

In the middle distance stood ruins of some sort. They were tall, arching white structures that suggested Roman work, but light enough that they seemed they could float, were they together. In front of the ruins stood smudge of a figure, a person, either going in or coming out.

She looked away to her grandfather and caught her breath. He was staring intently at the piece, mouth just slightly open, brows lowered. He was almost glaring at it. She waited several seconds, maybe minutes, before speaking.

"Do you recognize it?" she asked quietly.

"I... think so?" He put a hand to his temple and leaned in to the drawing. "Tal... Tal something?"

She smiled a big, happy smile. "You're close!"

She expected some sort of laugh, maybe, perhaps a bit or a nervous grin. Instead he squinted harder and frowned.

"Granda?"

"Have you seen this?" he asked. He sat back and looked her in the eyes. The blue of his pried at the green of hers, and she felt a momentary thrill. These days Granda was mostly genial and carefree, this was something else. They looked like young eyes again.

He gripped one of her hands with more force than she'd felt from him in a while. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't entirely comfortable. "Tell me Molly, have you seen this?"

Now he was scaring her. "N-no, Granda. Don't you recognize it?"

"I do. Talorcan. But how do you know about it?"

"It's from one of your books, Granda."

He blinked. His head rocked back a bit. "My books?"

"Yeah, your books."

"Molly, sweet. I didn't publish any books. At least I don't think I did."

"No, the ones you had typed up. The ones you used to tell me stories of when I was a little girl."

"I... oh. I forgot about those."

A knock came from the door, they both looked up. Sandy, the nurse, was in the hall with a cart.

"I'm sorry Molly. Jacob, dear. It's time for your medicine."

Test time, too, she knew. "I need to leave, don't I?"

"Yes, dear." Sandy moved into the room and went to her grandfather's bedside. "But you can come back soon. Go and grab yourself a coffee across the street and we'll be done."

She shook her head. "No, I have homework to do still, and a paper to write."

"It's okay, Molly," said Granda. "I'm a little tired, and I tend to be grumpy with Sandy after this. If you've got things to do, go do them."

"You sure it's okay, Granda?"

He nodded. "It's alright, Molly. Get with ye." He let a little brogue trickle into his voice at the end.

"Do you want me to leave anything? The portrait?" she asked. At his nod she flipped the folder back to that plate and removed it from the bindings, and handed it to Sandy.

"Put this where he can see it, please?"

"Absolutely. I'm sorry to chase you out."

"No, no worries. I gotta get." She leaned over and kissed her grandfather on the forehead. "You be good."

He nodded and smiled sweetly at her, patting her hand. She gripped his and said her farewells. All the way home she kept thinking about his eyes. They had never gone back to the relative geniality he had before looking at 'Talorcan'.

It worried her.