Rosie, 1986: A Modern Little Red Tale

Rosie didn’t flinch under the harsh glare of the immigration officer’s lamp, her fingers drumming softly on the counter as the woman scrutinized her battered passport.

“And what brings you here today, Rosie?” the officer asked, her eyes sharp above the document.

“Visiting family,” Rosie replied, her voice low.

The officer gestured, “Hood down.”

With a breathless flick, Rosie dropped the red hood from her head, revealing hair the color of dried blood, eyes as calm as frozen lakes.

The stamp came down with a final slap. “Welcome,” the officer said, sliding the passport back.

Rosie flipped the hood up again, reclaiming her shield from the world, and walked away without a word. She bypassed the chatter and restless shuffling near the baggage carousel—she never packed heavy. A small leather bag was all she had, slung across her chest, holding only essentials: a notebook, a spare black t-shirt, and a folding knife tucked carefully in a hidden pocket.

Outside, the city’s breath was hot and damp, exhaust fumes weaving with the metallic tang of rain on concrete. Rosie flagged down a yellow taxi, the driver glancing at her through a cracked window.

“Downtown,” she murmured.

The cab smelled like stale coffee and desperation. Rosie sank into the seat, pulling a cigarette from her pocket and rolling it between her fingers. Before she could light it, the driver pointed to the cracked no-smoking sign taped to the barrier.

“Can’t smoke in here.”

Rosie opened the window, flicked the unlit cigarette out, and sighed, the ghost of smoke she imagined curling into the backseat. “Fine.”

As the car rumbled over the river, Rosie pulled out her notebook. The pages were smudged with ink and torn in places from hurried scribbles. Names, dates, sketches of the wolf tattoo she had seen in old photographs. She traced the outline again, remembering.

The cab slowed, then stopped. Traffic. Rosie let her head fall back, eyes closed as the city’s heartbeat drummed in horns and the hiss of buses. The cab ride stretched from seventeen minutes to forty, her pen scratching across the pages, spilling her frustration into dark swirls of ink.

When they finally pulled up to the apartment building, dusk was falling. The air was cooler here, the sidewalks gleaming with rain under flickering neon signs. Rosie paid the fare, dropping a crisp five on top for the driver’s trouble, and stepped out.

He was waiting by the door.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a cigarette hanging loosely between two fingers, he looked exactly like the photos she had kept hidden under her mattress as a child. The wolf tattoo on his forearm coiled around his skin, the ink darker against the pale light of the street lamp. Her brother.

“Hi, sis,” he said, crushing the cigarette under his boot. “Flight okay?”

“Fine.” Her eyes flicked to the entrance. “Where’s Grandma?”

He hesitated, scratching at the wolf tattoo. “Inside, but…”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Rosie interrupted. “Just take me to her.”

He didn’t move. “Rosie… she’s not doing well. She drifts in and out. Doesn’t always know where she is.”

Rosie felt her jaw tighten. She hadn’t crossed half a continent to hear stories about confusion and frailty. She had come to see her grandmother, to remind herself why she had ever worn the red hood in the first place.

“Let’s go,” she said, brushing past him.

The apartment smelled of old books and lavender. A soft beep came from the heart monitor in the corner, steady, patient. Grandma lay there, thin and small, wrapped in quilts Rosie remembered from childhood, quilts that once smelled of cinnamon and fireplace smoke.

Rosie pulled a chair to the bedside, lowering her hood, letting the soft strands of her hair fall free.

“Hi, Grandma,” she whispered.

The old woman’s eyes flickered, pale blue and cloudy, searching for something in the darkening room before focusing on Rosie.

“Red…” Grandma’s voice cracked.

“It’s Rosie, Grandma. I’m here.”

A tired smile crossed the old woman’s lips. “My little Red. You came.”

They sat together as the city hummed below them, sirens weaving with the sound of wind against glass. Rosie took Grandma’s hand, the skin paper-thin, veins like rivers under a fragile sky.

She stayed like that, the notebook resting on her lap, the story unwritten but alive in her mind, waiting for the right words. The wolf tattoo, the red hood, the grandmother’s stories—she would carry them back with her, out of the city, out of the past, and into something new.

When Rosie left the apartment later that night, her hood was up again, but the world seemed quieter, the lights softer, as if the city itself knew to give her space. She slipped through the streets, carrying stories, memories, and the quiet promise of returning when it mattered most.

Moral of the Story:
Family is not always about fairytales and happy endings; sometimes, it’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, and carrying stories forward for those who can no longer speak them.