Personal Narrative : A Short Story Of A Grandfather's House

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The bus comes to a sudden stop at the outskirts of the village, and from here, I’m on my own. The moon is shining bright and lighting the path, as I walk the trail over the hill. Father always described Grandfather’s house as ancient, hidden, and isolated in a small village, deep in the himalayas. I’ve lost count of the many times that Grandfather came to visit me, so it’s finally time for me, Raja, to go see him. So here I am now, strolling along this rocky trail with my suitcase in one hand and a flashlight in the other. There’s a house that I can see; I flash my light towards the house and it looks just like Father described to me. It is a brown, small, ancient house surrounded by big trees, bushes, and more tiny houses. I stop and let my eyes gaze at the entire village, until something catches my eye. I flash my light at it and perceive it to be an enormous, rotting, and abandoned water well just to the right of my Grandfather’s residence. I walk straight ahead to my Grandfather’s house, and knock on the door. Grandfather doesn’t know that I’m coming, so I’m curious to see how he reacts to seeing me after many years. I wait at the steps and hear him walking towards the door, which unlocks and slowly opens while squeaking. My Grandfather is standing there with his crane in his left hand and his pair of glasses hanging on his neck. He squints his eye and puts his glasses on with his delicate hands.
“Grandfather, it’s me Raja, I’ve come to meet you,” I exclaimed.
“Oh

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