I was the only one in my family cursed—or blessed—with the ability to reset my life upon death. Even before I could properly talk, my mother would cover the grimy walls with lottery numbers written in charcoal, forcing me to memorize them. If I mispronounced or misremembered a number, my mother would take a needle and meticulously stitch the incorrect digits onto my arm, each jab a painful reminder, meant to “deepen my memory.” By the time I turned six, I had memorized every lottery number from every drawing since my birth. For the first time in my life, my father actually took me to town. He even bought me an ice cream, fulfilling a long-held wish. But it was also that day my father, beaming with an eerie excitement, led me to the edge of a desolate cliff. “Maya, you’ve enjoyed such a privileged life. Now it’s time to pay us back.” The next second, my father shoved me off the steep precipice. When I opened my eyes again, I had reset to my three-year-old self. My parents stood over me, their faces alight with eager anticipation. “Maya, what are today’s winning lottery numbers?”
Every ten generations, someone in our family inherits the ability to reset their life. I happened to be the tenth generation. So, my parents quit their jobs and stopped farming, focusing solely on having children. They had seven kids in total. Only when I was born did the ancient family heirloom, a book passed down for centuries, finally react, its pages shifting in color. That’s why, even when I was still babbling, my mother would use burnt-black charcoal to cover the mud walls with lottery numbers, teaching me to read and memorize them. But as a young child, I constantly struggled to remember. I’d mix up the numbers or get the dates wrong. At first, Mom didn’t hit me. But once I turned two, my mother, desperate for a better life, finally lost her patience and decided to punish me. Initially, she only used thin switches to whip my calves. The switch was thin and flexible, but when it cracked against my calves, it stung with an agonizing burn. However, as more and more lottery numbers accumulated, so did my mistakes. Mom assumed I wasn’t trying hard enough. She started hitting me with a stick as thick as her thumb and burning me with red-hot iron tongs. Back then, I didn’t understand. All I knew was to beg for mercy in my childish voice. “Mommy, I’m sorry, please don’t hit me anymore.” But this usually just infuriated her further. Her eyes, filled with a monstrous rage, burned holes through me. “I told you to memorize lottery numbers! Why are you spouting nonsense? Don’t you know talking ruins your focus? You’re so dumb, when will I ever get to live a good life?” That’s when she’d pull out her embroidery needle, stitching the incorrect numbers onto my arm as if I were a piece of cloth to be mended. Each pierce of the needle sent searing pain through me, but I didn’t dare cry or make a fuss. It wasn’t until Dad came home at night that I would finally burst into sobs. Then, Dad would pull me onto his lap. “Maya, don’t blame your mother. It’s because you’re so disobedient. If you just listened to your mother and memorized the lottery numbers, why would she use an embroidery needle on your arm? She’s doing it for your own good, to help you remember.” “You see how poor we are. The faster you memorize all the numbers, the sooner we can all live a good life.” Listening to the frantic beating of his heart, I, a young child, couldn’t understand why memorizing lottery numbers would make our whole family’s life better.
Besides hitting me and forcing me to memorize lottery numbers, Mom was actually quite kind to me in other ways. Since my parents never worked, our family usually only had potatoes to fill our stomachs. But I was the only one in our house who got to eat an egg every day. Because Mom said if I ate well, my memory would improve, and I’d memorize the lottery numbers faster. What’s more, even my three older brothers had chores, but I was exempt from everything. So, even though Mom hit me, I still thought she was the best mother in the world. Until one day, Grandma Martha came to visit. After Grandma Martha left, Mom pulled Dad into the bedroom. She said Grandma Martha had apparently told them I needed a “brain swap”—that only by changing my brain could I become smart. At the time, I had just had numbers stitched onto my arm by Mom, and it was still painful and itchy. I didn’t quite catch how one was supposed to “swap brains.” But I was willing to do it. I felt guilty for not being able to memorize the lottery numbers and preventing my parents from living a good life. So, that evening, when Dad said he was taking me to a special place, I eagerly followed him. On the way, to make Dad happy, I even excitedly recited lottery numbers. But I never expected Dad to take me to a graveyard. Before I could even figure out what was happening, Dad led me to an open coffin. Standing beside it was a dirty, disheveled old man. My dad pulled five hundred dollars from his pocket and handed it over. “This ‘brain swap’ you talked about, does it really work?” The old man, Silas, leered at me with a disgusting, knowing smirk, shaking his head and laughing. “Of course! The guy in that coffin? He was a genius, a top scholar in his day. If his family wasn’t out of town, who would dare dig up his grave in the middle of the night?” “Alright, have your daughter lie in there. Just three days with this genius scholar, and I guarantee you’ll have a smart daughter back.” Though I was young, I still understood the old man’s words. I turned to run, but Dad grabbed the back of my neck, holding me in a death grip. “Maya, what are you running from?” I stared in horror at my favorite dad. After a two-second stunned silence, I began to struggle violently. Because I had seen the face of the person lying in the coffin. To call him a “person” felt wrong. He was nothing but a collection of putrid, reeking bones. But Dad paid no attention to my cries and pleas. He roughly grabbed me and flung me into the coffin. I cried out, trying to scramble back out. Dad pressed my head down hard, and my body slammed back into the coffin. Finally, he coldly pushed the coffin lid shut, blocking out the last sliver of moonlight from the sky.
I stayed in that coffin for three days. For three days, I breathed in the stench of the decaying corpse, alternating between crying and throwing tantrums. But each time I cried and screamed, a bitter ache would settle in my chest. Because I realized that my parents didn’t seem to love me that much after all. This made me remember the rumors circulating in our village. People in the village said our family had seven children. But I only had three brothers. I had never met my three older sisters. The villagers whispered that my three sisters had been turned into “flowerpot girls” by Dad and sold off. I didn’t understand what a “flowerpot girl” was. How could a person turn into a flower? But I knew it couldn’t be anything good. And I also realized, with a terrifying jolt, that if I hadn’t inherited the family’s reset ability, would I also have been turned into a “flowerpot girl” and sold by Dad? Though I still didn’t really understand what the reset ability truly was. But thankfully, Dad finally let me out. The moment I saw the moonlight again, my whole body trembled. Silas, the old man, leered at me with a disgusting gaze. “Maya, will you be able to remember numbers well after this?” I looked at the terrifying, sinister smile on the old man’s face and nodded frantically. “I… I can.” Silas walked away toward Dad, looking satisfied. “This girl has a stubborn fate; she might need the ritual done again. Take her back and observe her. If it doesn’t work, come back to me.” My body trembled violently again, utterly terrified. I glanced in horror at the bones lying in the coffin. I swore I would never, ever come back here again.
When I got home, I developed a high fever. In my feverish sleep, I had many dreams. I dreamt of my three sisters, whom I had never met. They smiled and invited me to come play with them. I hesitated for a moment, then refused. Even though my parents were so cruel to me, I still didn’t want to leave them. I lay in bed for three days. When I finally opened my eyes again, Mom was lying beside me, looking utterly exhausted. Seeing me awake, she reached out and touched my forehead. The warmth of her palm seeped through my skin, reaching deep into my chest. At that moment, I thought, my mother must still love me. She just wanted a good life so badly that she hit me. Dad also reverted to his usual self. He would buy me chocolates, the kind only city kids could afford. Although I didn’t like them; they were too bitter. Still, I happily threw myself into Dad’s arms. It was from that moment on that I decided I had to properly memorize the lottery numbers. I didn’t want Dad and Mom to turn into those other versions of themselves again. And of course, I didn’t want to be sent back to that old man for another ritual. I don’t know how it happened, but ever since I made up my mind to memorize the lottery numbers well, my brain seemed to improve. From barely memorizing one set of numbers a day, I could now memorize three sets daily. Every time I exceeded my quota, Dad would gently stroke my head and praise me for being so good. Mom never hit me again. The tongs, the embroidery needle, and all those other things were put away. I was truly happy then. Time flew by, and I slowly grew older. I had firmly ingrained all the lottery numbers up to my sixth birthday in my mind. The day before I turned six, Dad gently ruffled my hair. “Maya, tomorrow is your birthday. What kind of present do you want?” My eyes lit up as I looked at him. “Ice cream, Dad! I want ice cream.” Dad chuckled, a simple, good-natured laugh, and nodded. “Alright.”
Early the next morning, Dad took me to town. It had an amusement park and all sorts of snack shops. This new world utterly amazed me. Dad even took me to a diner, ordering me sweet soy milk and delicious meat buns. I ate, my mouth smeared with oil. After breakfast, just as Dad was about to take me to leave, a man walked into the diner. He wore a coffee-colored jacket, his face grim, made even more intimidating by a long, jagged scar that seemed to pull at the corner of his eye, giving him a truly fearsome look. I instinctively shrank behind Dad, terrified. Once we were out of the diner, I fearfully asked Dad, “Dad, that man who just came in, he was really scary.” Dad replied with some impatience, “He’s a killer. If you dare make trouble again, I’ll let him chop you up and turn you into dinner.” My body trembled violently again, and I didn’t dare say another word. But a child’s world, no matter how terrifying the emotions, can be completely dispelled by something delicious. I was no exception. When Dad handed me the cheapest ice cream from the ice cream shop, I instantly forgot all about the killer. I never imagined the ice cream I’d fantasized about would taste so incredibly delicious. But what I didn’t know was that the ice cream in my hand would be the last sweet taste I would ever savor in this life. After I finished the ice cream, Dad prepared to take me home. That’s when I saw the “killer” from the morning again. He was sitting by the door next to the ice cream shop, smiling as he fed buns to a stray cat. I frowned, confused, looking at the smile on the man’s face. Dad said that man was a killer, didn’t he? But why was the killer so gentle when he was feeding a cat? My dad, whenever he saw a stray cat on the street, would always kick it away. Before I could figure it out, Dad’s impatient voice called from not far away. “Maya, what are you standing there for? Hurry up and get over here!” My body trembled violently, and I quickly ran after Dad. On the way home, I kept wanting to ask about the killer. But my father completely ignored me, rushing along hurriedly. Until Dad led me to the edge of a steep cliff. Looking down at the seemingly bottomless abyss, my body instinctively clutched the hem of Dad’s shirt. “Dad, why aren’t we going?” Dad knelt down in front of me. “Maya, have I been good to you?” Although I didn’t know why Dad was asking this, I nodded earnestly. “Dad has been very good to me.” A wide smile spread across Dad’s face. “Then are you willing to repay Dad?” “Yes, Dad.” The moment I finished speaking, my body suddenly hung suspended in the air. Dad had lifted me up. But before I could even scream, Dad threw me off the cliff. Along with the plummeting sensation came unstoppable tears. I never imagined my own father would kill me. Until my back slammed hard against a rock. I grunted, crying out loud. The intense pain radiating through my body made me instinctively grasp desperately at the wild grass growing nearby. I don’t know where I found such strength. But I knew I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live. I wanted to ask my father. Why he would do this to me. Just as I was about to scramble back to the cliff edge, Dad, who I thought had left, suddenly reappeared. He was smiling, a truly twisted and vicious grin. “You little brat, you’re tougher than I thought!” Before I could react, Dad powerfully kicked me in the head.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a strange, yet familiar, room. The ceiling beam, just like in my previous life, was half broken. But the room was filled with many more appliances, even a television. For a few seconds, I couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Until my parents, several years younger, excitedly spoke up. “Maya, you’re the Maya who reset, aren’t you?” I looked at their familiar, yet strangely unfamiliar, faces. The emotions I had suppressed for so long finally erupted. I wanted to confront Dad. Why had he been so cruel to me in my last life? I wanted to ask Mom. Had she known all along that Dad would throw me off the cliff? But I had barely cried for a moment before my sobs caught in my throat. Because my *new* dad was looking at me with frantic excitement. “She has to be the reset Maya! The original Maya was so dull, she wouldn’t even cry.” My new mom echoed his excitement, “I think so too! Wait here, I’ll go check that old book our ancestors left behind.” A moment later, my new mom ran back in. “There are words! The ancient book has words now! It says lottery!” My new dad instantly jumped up, ecstatic. “So, in the last life, I made Maya memorize lottery numbers? It must be true! If it were me, I’d definitely make Maya memorize lottery numbers.” I watched the two of them chat excitedly, my heart feeling like snowflakes fluttering in winter, a dense, sharp pain spreading through me. Their conversation was eerily similar to that day in my previous life when my parents discussed taking me to the graveyard. Perhaps my expression was too sad, because my new mom noticed my distress. She slapped my new dad, then bent down and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Maya, don’t overthink it. Mommy and Daddy are just too happy.” My new dad also snapped back to reality. “Right, right, Maya! Dad just didn’t expect what the ancestors said to be true.” Through my watery eyes, I carefully scrutinized their expressions. But whether it was my imagination or not, I felt like their smiles were forced. Still, I timidly shook my head. “It’s okay.” Perhaps my obedient timidity lowered my new parents’ guard. My new dad looked at me, excited. “Maya, hurry up and tell us the lottery numbers now! Today’s the drawing! I’ll go to town before dark, and I can even wait there for the results. If Daddy wins, I’ll buy you delicious chocolates when I get back.” Hearing my new dad’s words, my heart tightened again. This dad, trying to coax me, sounded so much like my dad from the previous life. I finally told my new parents the lottery numbers. That very day, they took my brothers and left for town. I was tied by the neck with a rope to the bed at home.
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