My Grandfather’s grave

I had never met my grandfather—he passed away long before I was born. But every year on the day he passed, our whole family gathered at my grandmother’s house to remember him, light a candle, and spend the night together.

One year, the gathering didn’t happen as usual because the person who always organized it was away. We simply went to my grandfather’s grave, lit a candle, and then went back to my grandmother’s house. I was watching a movie with my cousins when I started feeling sleepy and went to rest in an upstairs room.

Suddenly, my cousins started shouting my name from the living room. I woke up and went downstairs to see them in tears. They told me they had heard heavy footsteps above us, walking back and forth—even though no one else was in the house.

Then the footsteps came again—loud stomping on the old wooden floor, as if someone was angry or restless. Everyone panicked and we all rushed outside into the night. Later, my mom tried comforting us, saying maybe our grandfather came to show he was still with us in some way.