When I returned to my hometown during the summer vacation, my grandma asked me to lie down in a black coffin to "try it out for size."
"The longevity materials should be prepared while you are still alive. They will only fit after you have laid them down." She patted the coffin lid with her skinny hands.
The elders in the village are preparing the coffin, saying that this is an ancestral rule.
But when I lay down in it, there was a scratching sound coming from the bottom of the coffin, and the inner walls were densely carved with unfamiliar names.
In the very corner, my grandma's name is clearly engraved.
Grandma suddenly fell ill and held my hand tightly while she was dying.
"Remember... Only the coffin you lay in... Can..."
After she died, I opened the coffin lid and found dark red blood stains oozing under the name on the inner wall.
And my name is slowly emerging.
