My grandmother died on the eve of the seventh day after her death, and I returned to the village to keep vigil.
The village has a rule: paper figures must not be given eyes. If you draw them, they will come to life.
On the night of the vigil, a paper coffin blocked the doorway. The eyes on the paper figure's face had been drawn by my grandmother.
The village chief said it was called a “Paper Bride.” Every forty years, a new bride is chosen to marry the ghost at the bottom of the well.
He said I was next.
My grandmother left me a pair of scissors, a copper coin, and a line of writing:
“When the paper figure returns from the dead, it will claim your life on the seventh day. Don't look back.”
I don't believe in ghosts, but I believe my grandmother.
Until the moment I climbed down the well, when a voice came from its depths:
“You finally came. I've been waiting for you for twenty-five years.”
It was my mother's voice.
She had already died on the day I was born.
