On the seventh day, Grandma's speech became difficult, and it took a long time for her to say a sentence.

Her movements became more stiff and slow, and she no longer went out frequently.

She stared at me all day long. Wherever I went, she followed, even to the bathroom.

Hu Xiaoxiao was rescued. She called me all day long, and we were even more clingy than a newly in love couple, but she never tired of it.

I knew she was afraid and could only comfort herself in this way, being able to contact me at least.

Grandma would leisurely say, "I don't know why you have so much to talk about all day long. Isn't the phone bill money?"

Hu Xiaoxiao asked me on the phone, "Is your grandma okay? I feel something's wrong with her voice."

"She's fine," I lied, as natural as breathing. "She just caught a cold. You know elderly people have poor health."

There was a pause on her end, and she responded repeatedly, "Indeed, especially at a time like this, it feels like the air is filled with viruses. Do you have any medicine at home?"

I made a few perfunctory remarks and hung up the phone.

Grandma did look frightening. She was becoming more zombie-like with each passing day, and her eyes were getting more fierce.

We still slept separately at night.

When I woke up in the morning, I saw Grandma sitting outside, staring at me intently.

Time was running out.

I decided to find something to occupy myself.

This old house is as old as I am. It leaks when it rains and lets in the wind when it blows. It's as old and decayed as my grandma.

Grandma looked pleased as she watched me tidy up the house. "It's necessary to clean up. I used to nag you about it, but you never listened. A clean and tidy place looks good, and visitors would think you're hardworking."

She spoke that sentence for over a minute.

Regardless of the situation, she couldn't change her habit of nagging.

The western room is my father's room, and when he's not home, I always sleep here.

It's the largest room with the most things. There were even drawings from my kindergarten days in the TV cabinet, so I showed them to Grandma, boasting, "Grandma, was I so talented in drawing when I was little?"

Grandma didn't respond.

Well, it's impossible for her to praise me.

I went to search under the bed and found my textbooks and workbooks from elementary and middle school in a large cardboard box.

Back then, the teachers always assigned essays with the topic "My

Family," and every time I struggled.

I never wrote about my mother because I hadn't seen her for several years and we weren't close.

I didn't write about my father either. I only saw him once or twice a year, and we weren't very familiar.

I wrote about my grandfather, how he couldn't finish eating his meat and always asked me to help, how he worked tirelessly to earn money for my tuition.

He passed away when I was in the first year of middle school, leaving only Grandma for me to write about.

I presented the composition book to Grandma, feeling proud, "Look, I always got the highest score!"

Grandma said, "You're like a crow, only wanting to hear good things."

"Hmph!" I put the composition book aside. "I only want to hear good things. Blah, blah, blah."

I spent the morning tidying up, and at noon, Grandma went to cook.

I looked at the worn-out cardboard box and the yellowed papers inside, recording my past.

If someone were to open it, they would surely say, "This is a girl with great creative talent."

Of course, it's also possible that they would say, "This is a poor little girl."