the siting grandma
The old wooden floorboards didn't just creak; they groaned like dying men. It was 3:17 AM when I woke to the sound of my bedroom door clicking open. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. From the doorway, the heavy, dragging footsteps of my grandmother shuffled toward the bed. She had been dead for three weeks, but there she was, pulling the cold air of the hallway behind her.
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