One day, my grandma called me as I walked by her room.

I didn’t want to go. But she called me several times, so I had to go in.

The moment I entered the room, I smelled a strong smell of medicine mixed with other smells.

My bony grandmother lay in bed, her cheekbones high, her cheeks sunken, and her face and hands wrinkled.

Seeing this, I couldn’t help stopping my steps.

I was about to run out of the room and leave the scene behind forever when she began to tell a story.

I burst into tears when I heard “There was a boy named Billy...”.

I went over and sat by the bed, holding my grandmother’s bony hand and listening to her story.

Although her voice was weak, it was enough to remind me of those happy days in the past.

I smiled at my grandmother and listened to her quietly.