The old man in the village warned me not to sleep on that black wooden stool.
Because it is a "mortuary stool", specially used to rest the head of a person who died suddenly.
When I was five years old, I slept on it without knowing it.
I vaguely heard someone calling my name, each sound getting closer.
Twenty years later, I returned to the village to sort out my grandfather's belongings.
In the mezzanine of that stool,
Pulled out a piece of yellow paper with eight names written on it.
My name is clearly on the list,
Next to the first seven names, there are small blood-red coffins painted on them.
