dkrc I read Chapter 12, "Grandma," in one go.
I read Chapter 12, "Grandma," in one go.
Miho was taken aback. "...Lend me your body?"
"Just one day. Let me use your body to see my brother. After one day, I promise I'll switch back. I only need one day."
Miho wanted to refuse. Her reason told her it was impossible, it wasn't normal, she shouldn't agree. But there was something in her grandmother's voice that made her unable to say it.
"I held you when you were very little," Grandma suddenly said. "Do you remember?"
Miho's heart skipped a beat. She remembered. She always remembered. Everyone said babies couldn't remember anything, but she remembered that embrace—warm and light.
Is this a way of settling old scores, or is it an even more elaborate setup?
The award-winning screenwriter unconsciously became nervous.
"I knew then," Grandma's voice became very soft, "that you are a kind child."
Miho lowered her head. She looked at her toes, at her grandmother's withered, twig-like hand. Her mother was still speaking in the hallway, her voice indistinct, as if from another world.
"...Okay," Miho said. "Just for one day."
Grandma's lips twitched slightly. It wasn't a smile, just an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible change in the curve.
"Close your eyes," Grandma said.
Miho did as instructed.
Then she felt herself being pulled out of her body. The feeling was indescribable—like falling into a bottomless well, or being shoved hard from behind. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She wanted to open her eyes, but they wouldn't open.
When everything came to a standstill, she found herself staring at the ceiling.
It's not the ceiling from before. The ceiling in this ward is white, with a fluorescent light tube and a water stain next to it.
Miho remembered these details because she had observed them out of boredom while standing by the bed earlier.
But now she's lying down there.
She tried to sit up, but her body wouldn't obey her.
This is a very, very old body.
She heard rustling sounds coming from beside the bed.
Someone stood up.
Miho strained her eyes and saw a little girl in a dress standing by the bed. The little girl had a ponytail, white socks, and little leather shoes, and a strange expression on her face.
That face was Miho's own face.
That body belongs to Miho.
But that expression wasn't Miho's expression.
The little girl lowered her head, looking at the aging body on the bed with a gaze Miho had never used before. There was no lingering affection, no gratitude, and no guilt in that gaze.
There is only one kind of mild indifference.
"Thank you, Miho," she said through Miho's lips.
Then she turned around and walked briskly out of the ward.
Miho tried to call out to her, but she couldn't make a sound. All she could manage was a muffled groan.
A mother's voice came from the hallway: "Miho? Where are you going?"
There was no answer. The footsteps faded into the distance.
The mother called out again, then, presumably thinking the child had gone to the toilet, didn't chase after him. The father was talking to the doctor and didn't hear anything.
The ward fell silent.
All that remained were the beeping of the instruments and the silent, long wait of a nine-year-old girl inside the body of a ninety-year-old man.
Miho lay there, staring at the ceiling, when suddenly she remembered something.
Grandma said she has a younger brother.
Kamiho's mother had mentioned on the way there that her grandmother didn't have a younger brother. She was an only child.
What's the situation with Grandma's brother?
"Yeah, what's going on?"
The top editor had already finished two pots of tea by this point. Maintaining the same posture for so long had caused his legs to go numb, but he was so engrossed in the story that he didn't even notice.
His heart pounded with excitement at the story, and he couldn't wait to turn the page.
That night, the little girl, whose soul had been replaced, went home with her parents.
Late at night, she quietly got up and went barefoot to the living room. Her father's wallet was on the shoe cabinet. She took out a few bills, folded them, and stuffed them into her pajama pocket.
She went out before dawn the next day.
The mother asked from the kitchen, "Where are you going?"
"Let's go out for a walk."
She walked a long way. She passed an old commercial street and stood for a while in front of a convenience store—it used to be a bakery. She passed an elementary school, stopped under the cherry blossom tree in front of it, and looked up at it for a long time. Then she squatted down in an open space, drew eight squares on the ground with pebbles, hopped across them on one foot, and hopped back. She did this once, then again.
To passersby, the little girl was innocent and adorable.
Then she continued walking.
She walked a long way, crossing most of the city, until she arrived at an old residential area. She stopped in front of a house with a sign that read "Nakagawa". She pushed open the gate; it wasn't locked.
The room was dark. An old man lay on the bed, his hair completely white, his face covered in wrinkles, and tubes inserted into his body.
The little girl stood by the bed, looking at him.
The old man slowly opened his eyes and saw a little girl standing at the door, looking puzzled.
The little girl spoke. She said a name.
The old man's eyes widened suddenly. His lips trembled.
The little girl walked over, sat down by the bed, and took his hand, which was covered with age spots.
"Do you remember me?" she asked.
Tears welled up in the old man's cloudy eyes. He opened his mouth, and after a long while, he managed to squeeze out a sentence: "...I remember."
The two sat there in silence. The little girl held his hand, and he gazed at her face.
Judging from their appearance, they're definitely not siblings; they must be old lovers.
The editor speculated about the relationship between the two.
Using her granddaughter's body to meet her old lover, this grandmother is going a bit too far.
Voices came from outside the door. Someone had returned.
A middle-aged woman walked in, saw an unfamiliar little girl in the room, and called the police.
Twenty minutes later, the little girl's parents arrived. The father grabbed her arm and asked why she had run off. The mother stood by, tears streaming down her face.
The little girl lowered her head and didn't say anything.
Her father slapped her.
The little girl covered her face and remained silent.
Taking advantage of the chaos, she reached into her father's pocket, pulled out his purse, and rushed out of the room. Someone called after her, but she didn't turn back.
She hailed a taxi on the roadside. The driver asked where she was going, and she gave him the name of a hospital. Shortly after they started driving, she searched her wallet and realized she didn't have enough money.
That's all for now.
She said. The car stopped, and she got out.
Is Grandma trying to return her body to her?
If this is the only ending, it's not quite over yet, but it certainly doesn't live up to its god-like start.
For some reason, the top editor just felt that the author wouldn't be content with such an ending; he definitely had a more astonishing and ingenious development to come.
Jiabei felt that all she had to do was believe, to believe in the power of belief.
The little girl arrived at the hospital just as dawn was breaking.
She rushed into the ward, breathless and with disheveled hair. The elderly man on the bed had his eyes open, and the beeping of the monitor was getting slower and slower.
The little girl walked to the bedside and took the withered hand in hers.
"I'm back," she said.
The old man in the hospital bed looked at her, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
Then, the dot of light on the monitor, which was almost a straight line, suddenly flickered. Then again. Then again.
The beeping sound returned to normal.
The old man on the hospital bed closed his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips, as if he had finally let go of something.
The doctor rushed over, examined the old woman, turned to the little girl, and said, "Your grandma has passed away. She passed away peacefully."
The little girl nodded. There were no tears on her face.
Everyone says she is very strong.
At the funeral, the little girl, dressed in black mourning clothes, bowed her head. Relatives gathered around, patting her on the shoulder and saying, "Miho, you must take good care of yourself. Your grandma's biggest worry is you."
The little girl looked up at their faces and whispered, "I will."
ended.
In the end, Grandma got her body back. That's the ending of "Grandma".
Wait, why is there still more?
Just as Jiabei was about to let out a sigh of disappointment, she realized that the story was not over yet.
-
Many years later, at a funeral.
A woman stood in the funeral home, dressed in black mourning clothes. She looked to be in her forties, her face serene. People came and went around her, and she bowed to each one without saying a word.
After the funeral, she walked alone to an open space in the suburbs. She squatted down, took out a piece of chalk from her pocket, and drew eight squares on the ground.
Then she stood up and started dancing.
One foot, two feet, one foot. She jumped slowly, but every step was precise.
She stopped after hopping on the last square.
He was humming a song. There were no lyrics, only the melody. A very old melody.
She turned around.
The wind blew by, messing up her hair.
The corners of her mouth curved slightly.
The top editor dropped his teacup.
Snapped……
The crisp sound echoed throughout the entire editorial department.
"This grandmother... never returned her body."