My grandmother was the main reason I became obsessed with fantasy-themed novels and video games, because when I was six years old, she started telling me stories about a fantasy world called Calares.

She told me it's pronounced as ca-la-res, not ca-lairs.

Every summer before Grandma died, my parents and I would visit her in Virginia. I looked forward to it, because she would always tell me another story about the majestic world that fueled my imagination.

One day, after she'd told me the story of how Ralarth, the King of Dragons, was defeated, I was again amazed. I asked her, "What happened to Calares after that?"

"Well, it became peaceful again; free from evil," Grandma replied with a warm smile.

"And to the person who defeated Ralarth?"

"The Calarians crowned her as the 'Heroine of Calares,'" she answered, looking wistful for some reason. "They asked her to stay, but she politely declined their offer and returned to her world."

"Why?"

"Because the love of her life was waiting for her. After she returned home, they lived happily ever after."

Every time my grandmother finished a story, I'd always ask: "Are your stories about Calares real, Grandma?"

And every time I asked that, she'd reply with her gray eyes sparkling, as if holding a big secret: "It depends on you, Klein."

She wouldn't tell me if her stories were real, or if she was just making it all up for my sake.

I wished they were real.

And they indeed are real.