"Are you sad?" a young stranger—a child—came up to me while I was sitting on the front porch of my late grandmother's house. Her house was always open to people. So was her precious and fragile heart, especially to children and souls who longed for company.
She wasn’t a very active person, mostly due to her weight—or perhaps because she believed a rich life would come to her through her favorite grandchild bringing her the good life.
I failed.
I looked at the child who suddenly barged in, uninvited. A typical schoolgirl on holiday or after-school hours, visiting my grandmother to keep her company. Maybe it was because there was always something to eat at her house—or maybe because her house felt more like home than their own. Questions that seemed trivial to me, and ones that would always remain a mystery… unless I ever found out.
The little girl was unfamiliar to me—and yet, I felt like I should know her.
I wanted to ask who she was, but I had a feeling that, like many children who came and went from my grandmother’s house during my visits, she would playfully keep me guessing.
So I spoke to her like I was supposed to know her.
“I... I don’t know,” I said. I just realized how weird and heavy her question was. “My grandma passed away a few days ago, and—”
“Why aren’t you crying?” she asked, sounding both annoyingly blunt and genuinely curious.
“I... I—why?”
I meant, why was she asking me?
“Aren’t you sad?” she misunderstood my question to be about her own.
I wanted to apologize and start over properly. I was curious now—who was this girl?
First, I must introduce myself.
“I’m sorry—”
“You did nothing wrong,” she cut in, suddenly.
By then, I felt like no introduction was needed. I had this strange feeling I’d known this little girl for a very long time.
“No, I mean... yeah. I’m supposed to be sad, right? But right now, I don’t know.”
I sighed. “I don’t know what—or how—to feel. I should be sad. My grandmother just died. But I don’t feel like being sad. And before you say it—no, I’m not happy either.”
“Is that why you’re not crying?”
“I... I guess so.”
“What was your grandmother like?”
A strange question. It felt like she already knew a different answer, and yet was asking for mine. Like a multiverse, of sorts.
“To tell you the truth,” I laughed—empty laughter, echoing from somewhere deep.
“I wasn’t really a good kid. I don’t know when things started getting better between me and my grandma, but it just sort of… happened.
Soon, she’d proudly tell everyone I was her favorite grandchild. Even though I was just a naughty kid. Heck, I couldn’t even become what they all wanted me to be.”
I laughed again—
“There’s nothing funny. And yet, you keep laughing. Why?”
“I... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just seeing how tragic my miserable life is. That this misfortune I’m living right now... will just keep going.”
I felt tears form in my eyes. Instinctively, I wiped them away—casually, like it didn’t happen.
“Are you really not going to cry?”
It was the second time she asked me.
This time, her words felt heavier. As if she wanted me to cry.
“I... I’m not sad,” I lied.
“You were never a good liar,” she said.
Her voice changed. What was once a voice colored green—perhaps from innocence—turned ashen white. Maybe ancient. Old. Wise.
I don’t know why I can see the color of voices. I just can.
Her pitch didn’t change, nor her tone—just the color.
And yet, instead of feeling surprised or afraid, I felt at ease.
This stranger—this child—felt more familiar now than when we first spoke.
I feel like—no, I definitely have known her for a long time.
A gentle breeze, like that from a verdant glade, scented the air.
The moist bark and leaves gave a fragrance unlike the smoky, bustling city I came from.
The clouds above formed strange, but not unfamiliar, shapes.
Just the usual things clouds do when a gust of air carries them heavenward—toward a not-so-distant horizon.
“Who are you?” I asked.
By now, my curiosity got the better of me.
Yet I felt like I already knew the answer.
“I wish I could’ve finished all of those puzzles,” the little girl said, sadly eyeing the puzzle and crossword books my late grandmother had left behind.
She adored playing them. Her meticulous, sharp mind would hyperfocus during siesta, midday.
I never really understood how those puzzles worked. Maybe that’s why I was amazed whenever she solved them. I couldn’t. But with just a few words from her, the puzzle would unravel.
She could’ve ranked at the top in games like that.
Maybe that's why I like puzzles too. And why I sometimes hyperfocus.
I got that from her.
“The crossword puzzles?”
I stood up, walked to the table where my grandmother would usually sit all day, and picked up one of the books.
They should’ve been called booklets, but the cover always insisted they were books.
“These were left by my grandma—”
I realized I was alone again.
Maybe the kid went inside to grab food or turn on the radio.
I let her be.
A few moments passed.
Still no sign of her.
I checked inside.
There was no one there.
I checked the front gate—it was closed. Not locked.
But that wasn’t right. Whenever people visited my grandmother, the gate was always open.
Was I actually alone this whole time?
Was it a ghost that I met?
I passed by my grandmother’s room.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
A loud shriek reverberated through the house.
I backed away—
Then, a familiar hand landed on my shoulder.
I froze.
Another hand appeared on my other shoulder.
I looked to the side—
The hands were blistered, rotten. Bone sticking out.
Decrepit hands crept from my shoulders to my neck.
I heard a terrifying, low voice:
“You killed me! You left me here to rot. It’s all your fault! You killed me!”
The hands wrapped around my neck.
They were choking me.
Was it my grandmother?
Impossible.
She wouldn’t.
Would she?
But I didn’t visit often.
I didn’t have time.
Budget. Responsibilities. Distance.
I even sent money.
But was that enough?
Was I doing it out of love—or out of duty?
A duty I resented?
Yes.
Yes. These were my actual thoughts.
The hands tightened.
Ashen fingernails clawed into my skin.
I grabbed at them—they were ice-cold.
Dead.
Rotting.
Pus-filled.
I cried out, desperate:
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
But—
Enough of this.
From the moment the door opened to the choking hands—
None of that was real.
I’m sorry for the sudden horror in this piece. I know it’s a bit distasteful.
But hey, I apologize, alright?
So—
Where was I?
Ah.
I returned to the front porch.
I saw the silhouette of the child again.
She was playing with the puzzle books.
I approached quietly, but she must’ve noticed me.
She dashed toward the open gate.
The gate swung open, and I watched as her figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
She must have run away.
I wondered why—until I checked the puzzle book on the table.
It was a crossword.
One of the answers was encircled.
It said:
grandchild.
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