Looking for — for what? — I found this, written December 1 2008, a month after my grandmother died. As I remember it, it was supposed to be a fragment of fiction.

In the house of dreaming, people would dream even in the eight nights after a death, when the dead one roamed, watchful, and the living stayed awake. They rolled dice and played cards, they laughed as though they themselves were the ghosts their wakefulness was meant to convince to go away. They slept in snatches, awaiting their turn at a game, or on their way back from the…

Sharanya Manivannan

Moon-coxswained. In flower. Writer and illustrator.

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