My grandma passed away 3 years ago

Not calm. Not quiet.
A suffocating stillness, heavy as breath held too long.

I lie back slowly, staring at the ceiling, the faint smile from earlier still lingering on my face—leftover from the moment she smugly shoved my clothes into garbage bags. My breathing remains even, controlled, as though I’m not part of whatever horror just unfolded upstairs.

The next morning, I sip coffee at the kitchen table, pretending to scroll on my phone. My father’s wife—Marla—paces near the window. Her posture is rigid. Her skin looks gray beneath her makeup, shadows carved deep beneath her eyes.

She stops abruptly.
“Did you hear anything last night?”

I glance up, bored. “Hear what?”

Her fingers twitch at her sides. “Screaming.”

Dad peers over his newspaper. “Marla, you said you had a nightmare.”

“It didn’t feel like one,” she insists. “There was someone in the room with me.”

I hide my expression behind the rim of my mug. “Old houses make noise,” I say casually. “Grandma used to say this one breathes at night.”

Dad snaps the paper shut. “That’s enough. Don’t start this nonsense.”

Marla looks at me then. Her eyes search my face, landing on something she doesn’t understand—yet. She says nothing, but the fear stays with her as she walks away.

By afternoon, she locks herself in the bedroom.
By evening, she’s drinking.
By midnight, she’s crying.

And I am still smiling.

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