Dinner is macaroni and cheese. I sauté some shrimp while grandma waits idly at the dinner table, so I won't look like a complete asshole. I put a plate in front of her and she avoids looking at me. She can't pretend everything's fine. I let the lamp thing slide before because... I already felt guilty. But shit, we have more pressing issues to talk about now.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask before lifting a cup of water to my mouth.

"Talk about what?" she fumbles with her fork before finally picking it up.

I move so that I'm not towering over her anymore. Pulling out a chair, I sit next to her. I don't want to intimidate her. She already thinks everyone's abandoned her. That her daughter has too.

Her hair is uncombed, thrown into a low bun that's coming undone. I want to brush them for her. She's always cared so much about her hair.  It's the part of her she's always up kept. A doctor's signature- to look neat and fresh. I've always admired her sense of professionalism in how she dressed and talked. It seems that part of her is becoming as undone as her hair is.

"It can wait," I say and pick up a plate too.

I think I get it. Or at least some part of it. Why she avoids talking about things affecting her. Why she avoids the topic of my workaholic and seemingly indifferent mother, her only daughter. After I clean up, grandma stays at the table, hunched over like a child, waiting to be told off. I know how horrible it must feel because I don't feel like addressing it either. It's easier to pretend I don't see how she's changed. Nobody wants to see their family getting old and restless. I hate it. And I hate that there's nobody else to look to.

"Grandma," I lean against the opposite wall.

The single light, hangs above her head, similar to an interrogation room.

"How are you feeling?"

She moves her feet in her slippers.

"I meant about earlier. You thought someone was in your room."

"Is that so?"

"You don't remember?"

She shakes her head, her eyes still cast down.

"I'm fine, I was just tired."

"Has this happened before?"

"No."

"Well, I think it's best you don't lock your door from now on."

Mental note, I need to remove it myself. There's no reason for it to be there. 

"Do you think it's okay if I go through the stuff upstairs? I wanted to look for batteries."

She pauses before answering, "You can take anything you like. It's mostly garbage."

"Thanks grandma," I head over and kiss her on the head. Her shoulder stiffens under my hand but I let go quickly. "Love you."

We're not a family of i love you's. But grandad's passing has taught me one thing about life. You've got to say it. And say it often.

I don't need to press her on things that stress her out. She's already cut off most of our family. She'd cut off mom if I let her. Maybe she needs me more than I realized. Needs someone.

"Are you okay with sleeping downstairs?" I ask.

She glances at the cellar door briefly. "I can make it upstairs."

"Your stitches need more time." You've already caused damage probably.

"I don't want to sleep downstairs. Not tonight."

"I could stay downstairs with you," I offer as a last resort.

She takes a long quiet moment. 

"Okay fine."

I fall asleep pretty quickly. I'm not sure how long my head hits the pillow for when I'm pulled into a dark stretch of a dream. But I wake up, some time after 2 am. Grandma's snores fill the house, echoing into each room downstairs. I get up to use the bathroom under the stairs. Sitting still on the seat, I try to pull open my closing eyelids. I wave my palm out, searching for toilet paper. We're almost out. 

The hallway bathes in the soft, orange glow of streetlights filtering through the glass panels of the front door, reaching for my toes. I head toward the small cleaning closet tucked near the kitchen, my footsteps muted on the worn carpet. Just need to grab more toilet paper, that's all.

The lock on the closet sticks for a moment, and I twist it carefully before it gives way with a gentle click. As I reach inside, a soft sound catches my attention- a faint, rhythmic noise. I pause, holding my breath to listen. At first, I think it's some kind of bug stowed in the shadowy corners of the closet. 

I glance over my shoulder, the glow from the streetlights casting long, still shadows down the corridor. The sound comes again, unmistakable now—soft, persistent knocking. Just like last night, leading me out of my room. Except it's not nearly as audible as before. I stick my fingers into the toilet roll, taking it with me. 

I creep around, passing the living room, to check if it's awoken Grandma. Her chest rises and falls steadily. She's completely unaware. I return to the foyer, close to the kitchen where the knocks seem to be loudest. The knocking is so distant that it feels like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. I tread into the kitchen, suddenly aware that it could be coming from here. My eyes scan the room and land on the cellar door,  its brass padlock gleaming faintly in the dim light.

I stand rooted in place, my breath catching in my throat. The knocking is definitely coming from behind that door- like someone tapping from underneath. The padlock hangs there, secure and untouched, but it feels like something is waiting on the other side, in the dark, just beneath the house. I move closer, drawn to it. Each knock echoes softly through the still kitchen, vibrating through the wood.

I linger barefoot, near the cellar door, hand wrapped around the cold lock. But then the knocking stops and I can't help but wonder why I'm being so paranoid. Finally, I return to the staircase and plug the toilet roll into its holder. I've lost any trace of sleep I had before. As a teenager, sleep was difficult here too. I was always so restless, sleeping 5 hours per night. I'd catch grandad collecting the morning newspaper. He'd always be so surprised to see me at first light until eventually, he got used to it. I'd shadow him to the front door, to catch the only cool breeze of the day. After that, he'd make tea. I was a third wheel in their morning routine. But they never let me feel it.

I look up at the old clock, ticking away tirelessly. I don't know why I'm thinking about this now. There's no cool breeze or sun breaking in the distance. It's 2.30 am. Grandad won't ever be home. And I should be asleep.

When I return to the living room. I let my head drop on the pillow with a soft whump. My thoughts carry me in and out of consciousness. Just before I drift off, the pillow smells like berries. And a light flickers in the distance.

A loud knocking startles me awake, pulling me from a deep sleep. My heart races as I blink into the early morning light spilling into the room. For a moment, I'm disoriented, expecting to see grandma on the sofa bed, but the blankets are tossed aside and the pillows are empty. The faint sound of running water from the bathroom clues me in- she's in there. I push myself up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the knocking growing more impatient. I have dried drool on my chin and eye crust that weigh down my eyelashes. 

I shuffle to the front door because the knocking is relentless. I pull it open to find mom standing there, arms full of a brown paper bag that smells like fresh bread and coffee. "Good morning," she says, stepping inside. She seems oblivious to the fact that I've called and texted her a dozen times over the past few days. Her bright red lipstick and fresh curls are a stark contrast to my need-to-wash t-shirt and puffy eyes. My stomach knots, a mixture of relief and frustration bubbling up. I step aside, letting her pass, but I can't shake the irritation as we make our way to the kitchen. I hurry to the kitchen sink and rub cold water on my face. I catch my reflection in the small mirror hung on one of the cabinet handles. I look worse than I thought.

As we unpack breakfast onto the counter silently, I hear the bathroom door creak open. Grandma emerges, limping slightly. She tries to mask it, but I see the stiffness in the way she moves, the way she favors her good foot. She pauses in the doorway for a moment, her eyes locking onto mom. She doesn't say anything, just looks at her—long and hard—as if she's weighing her next words. My mom busies herself with unpacking the paper bag, the rustling of wrappers and clinking of plates filling the silence.

"Morning grandma," I'm the first to slice through the silence. 

I hand her a cup of coffee, and she takes it with a small, almost dismissive nod, her eyes still lingering on my mom. Grandma doesn't drink coffee. Mom knows that. She prefers tea to almost everything else on the planet.

There's something unspoken between them, something that's been brewing for a long time. Grandma's been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember, refusing to rely on anyone for help, especially when it comes to the house. It's her domain, and the idea of losing control over it—to age, to injury, to anyone—feels like an invasion. Yet here we are, with my mom bringing breakfast like it's some kind of peace offering, without addressing the fact that she wasn't there when it mattered.

"Hey mom," she finally speaks, pressing the trash can pedal with her foot and dropping empty boxes into it.

"How are you?"

"Alive."

I take a sip of my cappuccino. At least she got my order right.