The night when grandpa died, the coffin lid opened by itself.
He sat up straight, with two copper coins stuffed in his eyes, and an indistinct voice rolled in his throat: "The note... Is missing a page... Twenty hurdles... You keep it..." After saying that, he fell back straight, and the coffin lid closed with a click, making it a tight fit. The yellow notebook remained in my hand. The cover felt like human skin. When I opened the first page, the blank paper slowly seeped out the words: "First hurdle: baby under the bed, crying blood for the third time. Breaking method: blood of close relatives, enchanting the heavenly spirit."
