Somewhere deep in my slumber, I heard a series of knocks on my door. Followed by the others. And the others. Startled, I opened my eyes. Wide opened. I lied on my bed, straightened to listen. Then I heard the knocks again. Louder and harder this time. Sounded impatient.

“This is real,” I said to myself. “I wasn’t dreaming.” I got off my bed. I grabbed the clock on the bedside table. It was two o’clock in the morning.

“Gosh, who’s that?” I whispered.

The knocks sounded even harder and more impatient. As if the door would burst all at once.

“Who’s that?” I croaked.

The knocks suddenly stopped. My hands reached the handle. I summoned all the energy I got that early morning, and after counting to three, I opened the door.

There he was. A skinny white-stark old man, stood in front of my door. His white hair, teary eyes, rumpled pajamas, made the figure less frightening.

“Harry, is that you?” He winced.

I sighed deeply. It’s my grandpa. He got Alzheimer and forgot a lot of things. My poor grandpa. Since my father passed away two months ago, he’d been more suffering. Much more than I had. I reached his hand and gently took him into my room.

“Of course, you’re not Harry,” he mumbled. “You’re not that handsome. My Harry is the most handsome boy in the world. My baby boy, Harry.” He sank into the chair in my bedroom and closed his eyes, as if he wanted to forget everything, and fell into a deep sleep, snoring.


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