The Last Breath

Preface：（Do you know what they call the dying breath? They say when a person is about to pass, that final gasp trapped in their throat is called the dying breath.

If this breath touches flowers or grass, they wither and die. If a living person inhales it, at best they'll suffer endless misfortune and sickness—at worst, their life hangs by a thread. I accidentally breathed it in, and nearly got dragged away by my own grandmother.）

My grandmother collapsed just after her 85th birthday, bedridden for days with no improvement.

Then one morning, she suddenly got out of bed. She could cook, do housework—moving around with surprising agility.

We all knew this was the rally before death, the final surge. With red-rimmed eyes, we accompanied her as she bustled about.

Grandma said she didn't want to stay in the city. She insisted we take her back to the old farmhouse in the countryside, because that's where Grandpa had passed away. It was her dying wish—we had no choice but to honor it. Eventually, Dad, Mom, and I drove Grandma back to the village.

The moment we entered the old house, neighbors came rushing over.

Grandma brightened when she saw her old friends, chatting away endlessly.

Then she said she was tired, kicked off her shoes, and climbed onto the bed. She stopped responding to anyone after that.

But as I sat beside her, she suddenly stared at me with wide eyes, then her gaze went fixed and still. Grandma couldn't catch her breath—it stuck, then she swallowed it back down.

Dad had bought a burial shroud in advance. I lifted Grandma's upper body, trying to help change her into it.

As I lifted her, my face got very close to hers. Suddenly I heard a strange sound, like Grandma had burped.

I turned my head to look—Grandma's head was tilted back, mouth gaping wide open, and a putrid stench hit me full in the face.

I inhaled that breath. Immediately my throat tightened, like I'd swallowed several fish bones that I couldn't cough up no matter how hard I tried.

Just then an old man came striding in. He threw out his arm and physically blocked my dad aside.

"If you don't know what you're doing, don't mess around!" he barked.

Then he turned back. Seeing me still on the bed, clutching the burial shroud, his eyebrows trembled with anger. "Get down from there!" he shouted.

I was pushed aside. Just as I was about to argue, Dad suddenly stopped me.

"That old man is Grandma's brother," he said quietly. "By family rank, I have to call him Great-Uncle Samuel."

Soon Uncle Samuel had Grandma changed into her burial shroud and sent people to get a coffin and other necessary items.

The coffin arrived, the altar was set up. Our group bustled about, finally getting Grandma placed inside the coffin. We just had to wait three days for the wake, then take her to be cremated.

Night fell, and the neighbors gradually left.

After closing the gate, only family remained in the courtyard.

Dad finally broke down crying. I told Mom and Dad to go rest—I'd take the first watch.

There was a small shed in the courtyard that had been temporarily converted into a mourning hall.

A few steps from the coffin sat a folding stool. I sat down on it, staring blankly at the eternal flame.

The cool night breeze made the flame dance rhythmically. Drowsiness crept over me, and before I knew it, I'd fallen asleep.

Suddenly I heard knocking on wood. I had the inexplicable feeling that something was moving inside the coffin.

The coffin lid had lifted slightly, creating a narrow gap. Something black and viscous emerged from inside—darker and denser than black smoke.

In my daze, I didn't feel fear. I just stared numbly at that thing, which seemed alive as it writhed toward my feet.

I didn't dodge. Just as the thing approached my calf, sudden searing pain shot through me—it had bitten my leg.

The stool tipped over and I fell to the ground. I thought I'd had a nightmare, but the pain in my calf was still there.

I was wearing jeans, and there were no marks on the fabric.

As I puzzled over this, something in my peripheral vision caught my attention—that black thing was scaling the low courtyard wall and jumping out.

Mom and Dad came running at the sound. I realized I must have cried out.

But when I told them what had just happened, they didn't believe me at all. They said I was exhausted and told me to go inside and sleep while they took over the vigil.

The pain of losing a loved one had completely consumed them—there was no room in their hearts for anything else.

The bed was made up with Uncle Samuel's bedding. I lay down fully clothed, feeling my calf still throbbing with pain.

That black thing kept replaying in my mind.

It had emerged from Grandma's coffin, then where had it gone? What did it mean? I couldn't figure it out.

That night, I didn't sleep at all.