Author: Momo Chan

In the dead of night, I was jolted awake by a loud snoring sound. I was alone in my flat—how could there be a man snoring? Suddenly, I remembered a film where a man was hiding under a woman’s bed… I immediately picked up my phone to call Tom, but my best friend Rachel texted me just then: “Don’t trust your boyfriend; he’s going to kill you!” At midnight, I was awoken by the sound of snoring. Groggy and half-asleep, I instinctively thought it was Tom, but then I remembered we had just had an argument and he hadn’t come to see me tonight. I sat up in shock. The snoring stopped abruptly. I quickly turned on the light. I lived in a single room flat of about twenty square meters, and it was clear there was no one else in sight. Could I have been dreaming just now? But the snoring had been so vivid and real. At this point, I hadn’t thought much about it and assumed it was just my stress from work causing hallucinations. I went to the bathroom and then back to bed. I didn’t turn off the light; after all, that snoring had been far too real, and I felt a bit scared. The light gave me a semblance of comfort. But just as I lay down, the snoring began again. This time, it was so clear, it felt as if it was right next to me! I was truly terrified; my heart skipped a beat. I sat up again, and the snoring disappeared once more. I sat there, dumbfounded. Then I remembered the film about a man hiding under a woman’s bed… If that snoring was real and so close, then the person making that sound had to be in the room! If I couldn’t see them, they must be… hiding under the bed! I grabbed my phone to call the police. But what if the snoring was just a figment of my imagination? How would I explain that to the police when they arrived? I glanced around the room and found only a pair of scissors for protection, so I picked them up and opened the door, ready to flee at any moment. In the end, I grabbed a clothes pole and reached under the bed, sweeping left and right. The clothes pole didn’t touch anything. I finally breathed a sigh of relief, summoning the courage to lift the bed sheet that touched the floor. Under the bed was nothing but a thick layer of dust. Only then did I feel reassured and let out a long sigh. It seemed it had indeed been my imagination. I closed the door and lay back down, trying to sleep; the snoring didn’t return. But just as I was about to doze off, my smart speaker suddenly chimed: “Game on, please answer the question. Is she virtual?” What was happening? Had I mumbled in my sleep? Or was it malfunctioning? So I shouted, “Smart speaker, shut up!” It seemed to malfunction and didn’t receive my command; instead, it continued: “Is she female?” The smart speaker was right by my bedside, and I grabbed it to try to turn it off, but no matter how I pressed the buttons, it wouldn’t respond. “Is she from a Japanese anime?” “Is she from a novel?” … This was definitely not a hallucination, nor was it a dream! Then I recalled the snoring, and a chilling conclusion hit me—there was something unclean in this room! For the first time in my life, I felt such intense fear! Run! That was the only thought in my mind! I didn’t even have time to put on shoes, wrapped in my pajamas, I bolted out of the flat. I lived on the 25th floor, and the lift was still on the 1st floor. I thought about taking the stairs, but the corridor was too dark, and I was too scared to go. I wanted to call the police, but how could I explain this to them? In the end, I trembled as I took out my phone to call Rachel. But she hung up immediately and soon replied with a text: “What’s wrong?” I figured she might not be able to take the call, so I replied that I was encountering a ghost and needed her to come save me. As I typed, my hands shook, and I wasn’t sure how many typos I made in that simple sentence. But I knew she would understand. Just then, the lift arrived, and I hurried in, pressing the door close button. As soon as the doors closed, they opened again. But the corridor was empty; there was nothing there.

The lift doors closed again, and it began to descend normally, with no more anomalies. When it reached the 18th floor, the doors opened again, and still, no one was there. What was more terrifying was that the doors stayed open for a long time; I pressed the button frantically, but to no avail. The only reason the doors wouldn’t close was that someone was still trying to get in! I felt tears prick at my eyes, hesitating to escape the lift, when suddenly the doors shut. On the 16th floor, the doors opened. Finally, I saw someone. It was a middle-aged woman, dressed in red and green, looking very flamboyant, as if she were going to meet a lover. I was sure she was human. I felt like I had grasped a lifeline and quickly stepped aside, hoping to ask her for help once she entered. But she frowned at the lift, mumbling to herself, “Why are there so many people at this hour?” She took a couple of steps back. “I’m the only one in here!” I trembled as I told her. But it seemed she didn’t hear me; until the lift doors closed again, she never got on. I finally realized—this lift was full of ghosts! My back instantly went cold, and I hurriedly pressed the button for the 9th floor; I had to get out of here! I pressed myself against the side of the lift, keeping a wary eye on my surroundings. 9th floor. As soon as the doors opened, I dashed out. That was when I noticed a fat man waiting by the door. Seeing the lift doors open, the fat man stepped inside. “Don’t go in!” I shouted, “There are ghosts in there!” The fat man hesitated, looked back at me, but ultimately ignored my warning and entered the lift. Suddenly, a loud beeping sound echoed in the lift. I knew that sound only occurred when it was overloaded! There was only the fat man inside; even at his heaviest, he couldn’t be over 300 pounds—how could it be overloaded? With a confused look, he exited the lift, mumbling, “What a strange experience.” Finally encountering a living person gave me some sense of security, so I hurriedly approached him and said, “Mate, I—” “Blimey!” the fat man exclaimed, not waiting for me to finish before he turned and ran back to his flat in sheer panic. I immediately chased after him. Even though I didn’t know him, I believed he was the only person who could alleviate my fear at that moment. Besides, I always felt an inexplicable trust towards fat people, as if I thought all of them were good people. But that fat man dashed into his flat and slammed the door shut. I banged on the door, yelling “Help me,” hoping he would come out, but the door remained firmly closed. Just then, my phone suddenly rang. I quickly checked; it was Rachel texting me. “It’s too late; I can’t come alone. What about your boyfriend?” Despair washed over me as I sat on the floor. I understood why she wouldn’t come, and given I mentioned a ghost, she probably thought I was joking. Then I remembered my boyfriend, Tom. We were in a cold war, but we hadn’t officially broken up. In such a dangerous and terrifying situation, I couldn’t afford to let my pride keep me from reaching out to him first. I dialed his number, but he hung up. I was furious and scared! How could he still be angry at a time like this? I quickly sent him a text: “Tom, come save me!” He finally called back, anxious and asking what was wrong. “Tom, please come quickly! I’m so scared!” Tom reassured me, “Don’t be afraid; there’s no such thing as ghosts; it’s all in your head. I’ll be there soon; find somewhere safe to hide.” I asked, “How long will it take?” “About an hour; I’m quite far away.” “An hour?” I stammered, “I’ll be scared to death in an hour!” “Then I’ll call the police right now; just wait.” The call ended. Tom’s voice vanished, and I fell into panic again. Wait a minute! Why did Tom just say, “There’s no such thing as ghosts”? I had never mentioned to him that I was encountering a ghost! Could it be that he was pulling a prank on me to get revenge?

He had a background in computer science, and I heard he once hacked into some pretty serious websites. I thought with his skills, making the smart speaker malfunction or causing the lift to break down wouldn’t be an issue. With that thought, remembering how scared I had been, my anger flared up. Just then, Tom called again. Once I picked up, I exploded, “Are you out of your mind? It was just an argument! Do you really need to scare me like this?” I could imagine Tom on the other end of the line, laughing uncontrollably, which only made me angrier. But Tom sounded bewildered. “What’s wrong? How did I upset you?” “Was it you who messed with the smart speaker and the lift?” “What do you mean? Wait, calm down; the police will be there in ten minutes,” Tom said, sounding a bit exasperated. He actually called the police? If he was just trying to scare me, he wouldn’t have done that. I hung up with doubts and dialed 999 to verify what he said. “Hello, this is 999 emergency services…” “Hello!” I interrupted, “Did you receive an emergency call about something happening at the Oasis estate?” “Yes, I took that call; we are already on our way. The caller stated that a female resident in flat 2503 was in danger.” That female resident was me! “Yes, that’s me! Please hurry!” “We are on our way; we’ll be there within ten minutes. Please stay on the line, find somewhere safe to hide, and contact us if you’re in danger.” He actually called the police! Which meant I was truly in danger! But the police wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes—where could I hide? I had given up hope on the fat man and banged on the door across from me, but got no response. Maybe there was no one living there. I had to try another floor. I thought about taking the stairs, but the corridor was pitch black, and the lift offered some sense of safety. So, I bravely pressed the lift button. The doors opened, and there was no one inside. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, and stepped into the lift. I only dared to open my eyes after I heard the doors close behind me. Nothing seemed amiss in the lift. I relaxed a bit, hesitating, before pressing the button for the ground floor. The security office by the entrance seemed like the safest place! As I stepped out, the estate was eerily quiet and dim, with only scattered lights that barely illuminated the path ahead. I made my way toward the estate’s entrance. I was almost convinced I had encountered a ghost, but as I walked out and down, I hadn’t been harmed. Perhaps the ghosts in my flat and the lift were harmless. With that thought, my fear lessened somewhat. When fear stopped overwhelming me, I remembered something else. How did Tom know I was encountering a ghost? I had only told Rachel about it; if Tom knew, it could only mean they were together! What were they doing alone together in the dead of night? No wonder they weren’t answering my calls! No wonder Tom got angry and left when I said a few trivial things yesterday! My phone rang again—it was Tom calling. “How are you? Are you okay?” he asked with concern. I didn’t respond and instead asked, “How did you know I was encountering a ghost?” Tom paused for a second before saying, “Because… because Rachel’s phone card is with me; she’s been dead for two months.”

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“Honey, let’s kill Mia.” Just as I was getting engrossed in my late-night novel, my mom, sleeping beside me, suddenly uttered these chilling words. And I am Mia. Since Dad works the night shift, I usually share a bed with Mom. We were sleeping back to back when I felt an icy chill run down my spine. I carefully turned my head to look at Mom’s side, which was shrouded in darkness. By the faint light of my phone, I could see her body rising and falling rhythmically, clearly sound asleep. Before I could make sense of what had happened, a wave of drowsiness washed over me. Leaving my phone screen on, I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up, it was already late afternoon. “Sweetie, lunch is in the pot. Your dad and I had to go out for something.” Signed: Your loving Mom. Everything seemed normal, just like any other day. This made me think back to last night’s incident. Maybe I had imagined it? I had been staying up late reading novels, so perhaps it was just a hallucination? Thinking hard, I vaguely remembered it was around 2 AM. I was engrossed in a romance novel, moved to tears by the beautiful love story between the main characters, when I suddenly heard my mom’s voice. It wasn’t her normal speaking voice, but a deliberately hushed whisper, the kind used for secrets: “Honey, why don’t we kill Mia?” And I am Mia.

As I lifted the pot lid, a delicious aroma wafted out. Corn chowder, my favorite soup. But as soon as I tasted it, I noticed something odd. There was a strange bitter taste, along with a hint of rust. Looking closer at the soup, I saw tiny gray particles floating on the surface. It looked like some kind of soil.

Suddenly, I remembered an urban legend. On Halloween, if you cook a dead person’s ashes with a living person’s blood, make the blood donor drink it, and light a candle, the dead person’s spirit can possess the living person’s body.

Halloween had just passed a few days ago, and I was on my period. It’s gross to say, but it would have been easy to get my blood. The more I looked at the soup, the more unsettling it seemed.

Should I take a picture and ask some experts online? I took out my phone, about to snap a photo. “Click—” An unusual sound came from outside the door. “Click click click—” The door seemed to be stuck and wouldn’t open. The person outside appeared very impatient, repeatedly pushing and pulling the door. The force was so great that the entire door was shaking. I stared at the door in terror, my mind flashing with scenes of murderers breaking in from countless horror movies. “Bang—”

“Mia, why are you sitting there like an idiot?” Mom pushed open the door and came in. “Why aren’t you eating your lunch?” She looked at me suspiciously. “Hurry up and eat, I need to wash the dishes.” I don’t know if it was my imagination, but she seemed particularly anxious, constantly urging me to drink the soup.

I blurted out, “I think this soup has gone bad.” “Gone bad?” A dark look flashed across Mom’s eyes. “Let me see.” “Does it?” “It’s a bit sour. Did you accidentally use vinegar instead of water when making the soup?” Of course, I didn’t dare voice my real suspicions, so I made up an excuse.

he leaned in close to the bowl, taking a perfunctory sniff before setting it down. “No, your dad and I just ate some, it’s fine.” “Hurry up and eat.” She pushed the soup back towards me. I shook my head firmly. “What if it’s spoiled?” “You guys shouldn’t eat questionable food either.” “You’re so picky.” “If you don’t believe me, try it yourself. It really is sour.” “Forget it,” Mom ignored me, looking displeased. “If you don’t want to eat it, I’ll just throw it out.”

Normally, my mom wouldn’t even throw away a half-rotten apple. Even if food was visibly spoiled, she’d insist on tasting it first. Why was she so quick to discard this soup? I felt an inexplicable sense of unease. It was just a pot of soup, after all. I shook my head, trying to dismiss these ridiculous thoughts.

After going out for a run and taking a shower, I was comfortably lying in bed. I took out my phone, planning to play a game. Suddenly, I felt something cold on my nose. I figured my allergies were acting up again. I sniffled hard, and the next second, I tasted a strange salty, metallic flavor in my throat. That’s not right, mucus doesn’t taste like this. Confused, I instinctively touched my nose—ice-cold, bright red liquid stained my fingers.

My first thought was that I had a nosebleed from overexertion. I tilted my head back, trying to stem the flow. But the next moment, plop plop plop, blood drops fell on my face like rain. One drop even landed right in my eye, making it impossible to open.

It was then that I noticed a colorful flying squirrel hanging from the ceiling. Its belly had been sliced open by the decorative wire of the ceiling lamp, its body dangling and swaying in the air. Blood was steadily dripping from where its body met the wire, with half its intestines hanging down, nearly touching the floor. A few disgusting green flies buzzed around, and the stench of decay filled my nostrils.

“Spotty!” I cried out in shock. This was my pet flying squirrel of three years. How did it end up there? Flying squirrels are intelligent animals, very cautious of unfamiliar places. How could it have gotten caught and died on the ceiling lamp wire?

Spotty had been by my side ever since I graduated college and moved back home. But now, its once soft body was split open by the wire, its internal organs blackened and rotting, its death horrifically gruesome and bizarre. What was going on?

“What are you doing? Why are you shouting?” “Why is your face covered in blood?” Mom pushed open the door. Without a word, she grabbed a towel and started roughly wiping my face. “Spotty…” I mumbled. “That old rat? Good riddance, it was creepy anyway,” she said coldly.

“How did it get up there?” “How should I know? Doesn’t it fly? Maybe it crashed into something and died,” Mom dismissed carelessly. “Look at it yourself, it was hanged by the wire. Besides, no matter how well it could fly, it wouldn’t end up like this.”

Mom shoved me aside, revealing a cold and fierce expression. “Fine, I get it! How annoying! It’s already dead, what can you do about it?” “It’s just a rat, why are you making such a big fuss?” “If I kill a cockroach tomorrow, are you going to hire a funeral procession for it?”

My heart slowly turned cold. It must have been Mom who did this! She had always disliked having pets in the house and had threatened to get rid of Spotty several times.

I could almost imagine her grabbing Spotty from its cage, grinning maliciously as she wrapped the wire around its belly layer by layer until it was split open and bleeding. The scene was horrifyingly gruesome. Suddenly, I had a chilling realization. Was what I overheard a few nights ago real? If my parents really wanted to kill me, it would make sense for them to practice on Spotty first.

I turned off the lights and lay in bed. Suddenly, I heard a faint rustling sound from the doorknob—the very soft sound of a key turning. I have a habit of locking my door at night. My parents have always kept a spare key to my room, but they’ve almost never used it.

“Click—” The door lock was opened. Then I heard very slow, eerie footsteps. Someone had come in! The old wooden floorboards creaked under their steps. They seemed to be moving very carefully, trying not to make any noise. But I could clearly feel them slowly approaching.

The air seemed to stand still. I held my breath nervously. My heart was pounding in my chest. I kept my eyes tightly shut, not daring to move a muscle. The person came closer and closer until I could almost hear their breathing.

Suddenly, I sensed a flash of light pass in front of my eyes. A long, cold light. A sense of dread washed over me. I opened my eyes just a tiny crack.

An eerily gleaming knife blade was pointed right at me, less than four inches from my face. If it moved down even slightly, I would be decapitated.

Without time to think, I screamed and ducked under the covers. “What’s wrong, Mia? You were sleeping so soundly, did you have a nightmare?” “Dad?” “What are you doing here?” I quickly rolled to the side, wrapping myself tightly in the blanket and eyeing him warily.

“I told you she was pretending to sleep,” Dad turned and smiled at Mom, who was now leaning against the doorway. But for some reason, his voice sounded sinister and creepy. “Your mom and I had a bet about whether you were asleep. I said you definitely weren’t.”

“Want to get up and have some watermelon? We just bought some.” Only then did I notice Dad was holding a fruit knife. I relaxed slightly: “No thanks, you guys go ahead. I need to sleep, I have work tomorrow.” They looked at me for a moment, then left without saying anything. Lying in bed, I was wide awake. Thinking back on recent events, everything started with that overheard sleep-talking. Could what I heard that night be true? I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep until the middle of the night. I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. But something felt off. It was like I had forgotten something important. Standing alone in the living room for a long while, I suddenly realized— There was no watermelon in the kitchen at all! I even checked the fridge again, but there weren’t even any leftover watermelon rinds!

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My sister Stella cultivates a special type of golden mushroom, but she only sells them to men – older men, to be precise. Despite the exorbitant price, customers keep flocking to our door. Stella always takes them to a small wooden cabin to select their mushrooms. From inside, I can hear her painful gasps and moans. Every man who emerges looks incredibly satisfied, as if they’ve shed years off their age. Meanwhile, Stella’s face grows paler, and her belly swells larger day by day. One day, another elderly gentleman came looking for my sister. He arrived in a luxury car with bodyguards, dressed in an expensive suit, but he treated Stella with utmost respect. “Miss King, I’d like a larger golden mushroom, please,” he said politely. Stella glanced at him expressionlessly. “Certainly. The larger size costs an extra ten million dollars.” “No problem at all,” the man agreed without hesitation. To be honest, in all the years I’ve lived with Stella, I’ve never actually seen these golden mushrooms she grows. Whenever a customer comes, she always takes them to the small cabin next to our mansion. Stella has never allowed me near that cabin. This time was no different. She told me to stay in the house while she escorted the old gentleman outside. His two bodyguards tried to follow, but Stella wasn’t pleased. “Surely you know my rules if you’ve come this far?” she said coldly. The old man immediately apologized and ordered his bodyguards to wait where they were. Soon after, I could hear Stella’s labored breathing coming from the cabin, accompanied by the man’s painful groans. The two bodyguards were startled and wanted to rush in. I quickly stopped them. “Have you forgotten my sister’s instructions? No one is allowed near the cabin.” Despite my words, I was worried about Stella too. What exactly was she doing in there? After what seemed like ages, the sounds finally stopped. When the man emerged with Stella, he wasn’t carrying any mushrooms, but his face was glowing. Not only had his wrinkles disappeared, but his previously white hair had turned gray. The bodyguards looked shocked. Stella, on the other hand, looked even paler than before. I thought I caught the faint scent of blood in the air. As soon as the old man and his bodyguards left, Stella nearly collapsed. “What’s wrong?” I rushed to support her. Stella didn’t answer my question. She just asked me to help her into the house and, as usual, sent me to town to buy some medicine. I hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you really selling mushrooms? Why do those men…” “How many times have I told you not to ask about the cabin? Just focus on your studies,” Stella interrupted sharply. Stella and I are twins, but she was born a few minutes earlier. She acts more like a mother to me, and can be quite strict. Thanks to her mushroom business, we live in this big mansion. I attend the best schools, and she’s set aside a substantial inheritance for me. I both respect and fear my sister. So I didn’t dare ask any more questions and went out to buy the medicine as instructed. We live halfway up a mountain, and our mansion is the only building for miles around. To buy medicine, I have to go all the way down to the town. “Luna, what exactly does your family do? Why is someone always getting hurt?” the pharmacy owner asked curiously. Seeing my confused expression, he elaborated, “These are all blood-replenishing medicines. You wouldn’t need them so often unless someone was losing a lot of blood.” 2. Remembering the scent of blood on Stella, my heart clenched. Was she injured? I thought she was just selling mushrooms – why would she be hurt? When I returned home and gave Stella the medicine, I asked if she was injured. “No,” she said curtly, pushing me out of her room. Soon after, an even stronger smell of blood wafted from her room. I panicked and kept knocking on her door. “Where are you hurt? We should go to the hospital if it’s serious!” Suddenly, the door flew open. Stella stood there, her face dark with anger. “Who told you I was injured?” “…The pharmacist said those medicines are for blood replenishment. He said only people who lose blood regularly would need them.” “Why do you believe everything others say? Those medicines are fertilizer for the golden mushrooms.” I wanted to say more, but Stella had already slammed the door shut. A few days later, another elderly man came to buy golden mushrooms. He was extremely respectful to Stella. “Miss King, a friend recommended me. I’d like an even larger golden mushroom,” he said. Stella’s face was still pale, but she simply said, “A larger size costs an extra ten million dollars.” “Of course, no problem at all,” the man agreed readily. For these men, it seemed money was no object. “You’re not feeling well,” I said to Stella, worried she couldn’t handle it. “We’ve run out of the medicine you bought the other day. Go down to town and get some more,” she told me. I knew Stella was trying to get rid of me, but faced with her stern gaze, I didn’t dare disobey. After walking a short distance, I circled back and quietly approached the cabin. I pressed my ear against the wall. There were no voices inside, just some rustling sounds that sent chills down my spine. I leaned in closer and heard the man gasp softly. “What an enormous golden mushroom!” Then came the sound of crunching, as if he was eating the mushroom. I was startled. So Stella really was selling mushrooms in there? Just then, the man began to groan in pain. Frightened, I took a step back and accidentally stepped on a twig. “Who’s there?” Stella’s alert voice came from inside. I quickly ran away. By the time I returned with the medicine, the old man had already left. Stella was lying weakly on the bed, her face as white as paper. I rushed over to her. “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.” “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine after a couple days of rest. Did you buy the medicine?” “How can it be nothing? Let me take you to the hospital.” I tried to help Stella up, but she immediately stopped me, her tone turning cold. “Are you not listening to me anymore?” “I’m just worried about you. What kind of mushrooms are you growing? Why do you look so awful every time after a customer leaves, while those men seem to get younger? What’s really going on?” 3. At that moment, I didn’t notice that Stella’s belly seemed to have grown significantly larger. “Growing those mushrooms takes a lot of energy. I’m having trouble managing it alone. Go online and post a job listing. We need to hire some helpers, but only women.” “I can help you…” “No.” Stella cut me off before I could finish. “You just focus on your studies. After you graduate, find someone you like and get married.” “Why can’t I help? I’m in college now. If you teach me, I’m sure I can do it well.” “I said no, and that’s final. Now go post that job listing.” Stella pulled rank on me again with her authoritative tone. I had no choice but to go and post the job advertisement online. Because Stella offered such a high salary, many people applied. I thought Stella would interview them, but she didn’t ask them any questions. She just took out a device that looked like a blood pressure monitor and had them wear it. Different percentages would appear on their wrists, flashing in different colors. 50% and below was red, above 50% was yellow. But none showed 100%. As the number of applicants dwindled, Stella’s brow furrowed deeply. I suspected she was looking for someone who would show 100%. But even after all the applicants had been tested, no one reached 100%. In the end, Stella chose the person with the highest percentage, a woman named Holly Summer. Holly kept thanking Stella profusely. The monthly salary Stella offered was $600,000 – more than Holly could earn in years elsewhere. But Holly’s joy was short-lived. After Stella took her into the cabin twice, Holly’s face became frighteningly pale, almost devoid of color. The men who came to buy mushrooms even complained quietly that the mushrooms weren’t big enough, though they didn’t dare let Stella hear. Stella frowned in dissatisfaction as she looked at Holly. “She looked so strong and healthy. How is she so useless?” When I returned from buying more medicine, Holly was nowhere to be seen. Stella said she had left. But Holly’s luggage was still in her room. After her second time in the cabin, Holly had been bedridden. Stella gave her many medicines, but nothing seemed to help. I wanted to take Holly to the hospital, but Stella wouldn’t allow it. She just sent me to buy more medicine again. When I left, I clearly saw Holly’s hand dangling lifelessly from the bed. Now Stella’s face was covered in sweat, and her clothes were stained with dirt. As if she had just buried something. I looked at Stella in horror. Had Holly really died? And had Stella already buried her? I also suddenly realized that Stella’s belly had grown much larger, as if she were several months pregnant. “Your… your belly…” I stammered. 4. As far as I could remember, Stella had always lived in this mansion. She never went down the mountain or had a boyfriend. How could her belly suddenly get so big? Stella was keeping too many secrets from me. She pulled her clothes to cover her belly without explaining anything. Instead, she told me to keep posting job listings online. I couldn’t help but shout, “Is Holly dead? That’s a human life! How can you act like nothing happened?” “So what if she’s dead? Why are you making such a fuss? Are you trying to let everyone know someone died here?” Stella replied coldly. I stared at her in disbelief. Suddenly, the person before me felt like a stranger. Our father died in an accident before we were born, and our mother mysteriously disappeared soon after. Stella had always taken care of me. She gave up her chance to go to school and grew mushrooms to support my education, giving me the best material life possible. She was my only family left in this world. But I realized I didn’t know her at all. “Are you pregnant? Who’s the father?” I asked. Could it be one of those men who came to buy mushrooms? Stella gave me an inscrutable look but still explained nothing. “Hurry up and recruit more people,” was all she said before returning to her room. I stood there, my mind in chaos. Then I contacted Holly’s family and sent them all the allowance money Stella had given me over the years. I had seen Holly’s application – she had a bedridden mother and a father with cancer. I hoped the three million dollars could help them somehow. Even though I didn’t want to, I still posted the job listing online as Stella asked. Stella had sacrificed so much for me; I couldn’t disobey her. But thinking of Holly’s death, I posted the ad on a small platform with little traffic. I deliberately wrote it in an exaggerated way that would make people think it was a scam. For several days, no one came to apply. I wondered if Stella would give up on hiring. That day, I was about to go downstairs when I saw Stella return with a strange woman. The woman was filthy and kept giggling stupidly. She looked like a homeless person with mental disabilities. I watched Stella put the measuring device on the woman’s wrist. It showed only 50%, flashing red. Stella frowned, deep in thought. Just then, another customer arrived. Without a suitable helper, I thought Stella would refuse, but to my surprise, she agreed. Stella took the man and the mentally disabled woman into the cabin together. I quickly crouched down beneath the cabin to listen. I heard the man’s angry voice from inside. “Miss King, I paid an extra 20 million dollars, and this is the tiny mushroom you give me? My friend said he got one as big as a bowl for the same price, but mine is only as big as a cup. Aren’t you cheating me?” 5. The cabin fell silent for a while. Then I heard Stella say, “Wait.” Suddenly, the mentally disabled woman let out a terrified scream. After a long time, Stella’s voice came again. “Is this satisfactory now?” The man laughed with satisfaction. Then I heard the crunching sound of someone eating a mushroom. When the man came out, I saw that he looked energetic and vigorous. His slightly hunched back had straightened, and he seemed at least ten years younger than when he went in. Stella stayed in the cabin. I was worried something had happened to her and was about to go in when a ghastly pale face appeared at the door. I instinctively swallowed hard. Stella’s expression was terrifying. And her belly was even bigger than before. I glanced inside the cabin. It was pitch black, with a strong smell of blood wafting out. The mentally disabled woman seemed to be lying on the bed, completely motionless. “Who told you to come near here?” Stella blocked my view with her body. “I…” “Get lost,” she snapped. It was the first time Stella had ever been so angry with me. I felt hurt – after all, I was just worried about her. That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I got up and went to the window, suddenly seeing Stella dragging something out of the cabin. In the moonlight, I saw the face of the mentally disabled woman. It was deathly pale, her wide-open eyes staring right at me. I covered my mouth tightly to stifle a scream. Stella dragged the body towards the back of the mountain. I noticed a large patch of dried blood on the woman’s wrist. Terrified but curious, I followed her. At some point, Stella had dug a large pit on the back of the mountain. She threw the mentally disabled woman’s body into it and began filling it in, muttering to herself. “If I wasn’t in such urgent need of blood, I wouldn’t have chosen you. Seeing how crazy you were, it’s better that you’re dead. At least you won’t suffer anymore.” What did Stella mean? Urgent need for blood? What did she need blood for? I had a bold guess. Was Stella using human blood to grow the mushrooms? She often took blood-replenishing medicine because she was constantly losing blood. Now that her body couldn’t handle it anymore, she had to use other people’s blood. But why was Stella’s belly getting bigger? And why did the blood donors have to be women? The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Stella had too many secrets. Seeing that Stella had finished burying the mentally disabled woman, I didn’t dare linger and quickly ran back to the mansion. I had just lain down when my bedroom door was pushed open. Someone slowly approached my bed. I controlled my breathing, pretending to be asleep, but my hands were sweating under the covers. Stella stood by my bed for a long time, then sighed softly and tucked me in before quietly leaving. My heart was pounding. I thought she had discovered me. After Stella left, she didn’t return to her room. I heard her going downstairs. It was already 2 AM. What was Stella doing up at this hour? 6.

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I have a superpower. After killing someone, I can gain their memories from the past three years. Before my college interview, I killed my genius boyfriend and successfully got into university. When did I first discover this ability? It was when I was nine years old, the year my parents divorced. I stayed with my mom. I liked my mom, but truthfully, I preferred my dad. I often snuck out to see him and play together. But one day, when I went to find him, I caught him kissing another woman. My parents had always been discreet around me, so this was the first time I’d seen a man and woman kiss. The woman’s lips were bright red, as if they could devour someone. I felt angry. Even at my young age, I understood that my dad had done something wrong, which led to their divorce. Dad was the bad guy. Furious, I ran into my dad’s car and threw a bunch of marbles inside. The marbles got stuck in the brake pads, causing the brakes to fail. The woman was knocked unconscious, and my dad died on the spot. The police checked the security footage and found that I had put the marbles in the car. But a nine-year-old child knows nothing and isn’t criminally responsible. Plus, having lost my father, I was sobbing uncontrollably, completely devastated. No one blamed me. Everyone thought I was pitiful. But as I cried, my mind was suddenly filled with new memories. In these memories, I saw the woman’s face. It turned out that my dad had been cheating for a long time. I saw arguments between my mom and dad, saw my dad stealing money from home. I saw the woman and my dad in intimate moments, saw them disgustingly making love. I threw up. Mom and the police thought I was crying so hard that my body couldn’t take it. Only I knew that I was disgusted. At such a young age, I had seen two animals in heat.

Unexpectedly, my sadness dissipated quickly. What lingered was the disgust. At the same time, I realized something different about myself. As a child, I didn’t dare speak about it. As I grew older, I didn’t want to. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized what this ability truly meant. In middle school, I was in the same class as Emma, the girl next door, and we were close friends. We went to and from school together, inseparable to the point where we even went to the bathroom together. Our teacher jokingly called us conjoined twins. Emma didn’t have the best personality, but she was very pretty, much prettier than me. I sometimes heard people say, “There’s the princess and her maid.” I didn’t mind much, but Emma always seemed pleased. I thought this was one of the reasons she was so close to me. People are often reluctant to be outdone by those close to them. Emma liked feeling superior to me, which in a way showed that she truly considered me a close friend. I was very good to Emma, to the point where she became somewhat dependent on me. Emma’s grades were always better than mine, except for French. So I always helped Emma with her French homework, writing it neatly for her. As the French class representative, I would often help the teacher grade quizzes in the office. During these times, I would secretly change a few of Emma’s answers, adding some points to her score. Until the teacher discovered this. The French teacher didn’t blame me for changing the grades, but instead scolded Emma. The French teacher had always disliked pretty girls who loved to dress up, and given Emma’s poor French grades, the teacher disliked her even more. “You never focus on your studies, always up to these tricks!” “Girls like you will never amount to anything.” Emma’s eyes immediately turned red. She pushed her desk away with a bang and ran out of the classroom. The French teacher initially scoffed, but as Emma didn’t return, she began to worry something might happen. After teaching for a while, she couldn’t help but ask me to go check on Emma. I knew where Emma was. She was in the storage room next to the third-floor tea room. Whenever Emma was upset, she would curl up in there. I gently opened the door of the storage room, squeezed inside, and crouched next to Emma. Emma didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at Emma. I understood her; she didn’t want me to see her in such a vulnerable state. After sitting for a while, Emma spoke. “I don’t like Mrs. Thompson.” Mrs. Thompson was our French teacher’s name. “I don’t like Mrs. Thompson either,” I said in solidarity. Hearing my childish response, she couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Let’s go back,” she said. “Okay.” Emma and I grew closer and closer. But sometimes, you have to admit that when it comes to studying, some people just have a natural talent. I had tried hard, but I really didn’t have a knack for academics. Emma and I spent almost every day together, studying for the same amount of time. But Emma’s grades kept improving, steadily rising in all subjects, and even her French was catching up to mine. Sometimes she would offer to tutor me, but I couldn’t understand a thing. Mom would often compare me to Emma, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. I only had Mom. Seeing my grades not improving, I started to get anxious. A vague, dark thought appeared in my mind. What if I killed Emma? If I killed Emma, then I would have her memories. There are many things you shouldn’t think about. Once the thought appears in your head, it never goes away. I had an idea. Just last year, the school had installed new air conditioners with excellent cooling. Many seniors joked that the school only installed air conditioning after they graduated. Emma was quite short and always sat in the first or second row. I, on the other hand, sat in the fifth or sixth row. As summer approached, the school gradually turned on the air conditioning. I often complained about how hot it was and would walk to Emma’s desk during breaks. While talking to Emma, I would casually turn the air conditioning to 16 degrees Celsius on full blast. When the bell rang, I would leave. Sometimes Emma would remember to adjust it back, sometimes she wouldn’t. So Emma often sat through entire classes in the cold air. A few days ago, I had gone shopping with Emma. I told her my mom asked me to stock up on cold medicine and asked if she needed any. “Why buy cold medicine in the middle of summer?” she asked. “My mom says I’m always in air conditioning at home and school, and then I’m all sweaty outside. The big temperature difference makes it easy to catch a cold, so she told me to buy some medicine just in case.” Emma hesitated, thought it made sense, and bought the same medicine as me. Seeing Emma blow her nose and complain of a headache, I knew my chance had come. After school, Emma and I walked home together as usual. “Let’s sit on the grass by the river for a bit,” I suggested. We often relaxed and chatted there after school, so it wasn’t unusual. I pulled Emma along, deliberately choosing a spot visible to the nearby convenience store’s security cameras. I told Emma to open her backpack. Emma opened it to find two bottles of alcohol, seemingly high-proof. She took the bottles out of her bag. “Ta-da! A surprise for you!” I exclaimed. “We’re about to become high school students. Don’t you want to try it?” I turned my body slightly, using my hair to cover my mouth. I understood Emma. She was a girl with a rebellious streak deep down. Emma’s parents had always been quite strict with her. She hadn’t had the chance to do anything wild, but she had always wanted to. Emma held the bottle in her hand, then passed one to me. I turned around, pretending to suddenly have second thoughts and look a bit scared. I waved my hand, “Maybe we shouldn’t? Emma, won’t your parents be angry?” Hearing this, Emma’s rebellious side came out even more. “It’s fine, let’s just try it!” she insisted. I made a hesitant expression until Emma forcefully handed me one of the bottles. We talked about many things. We discussed the recent exams, our future, the French teacher we disliked, and the evening sunset. She apologized to me. She said sometimes she couldn’t help but treat me like a sidekick. She said I was her best friend, forever and always. I said yes, I was. Seeing that it was about time, I patted Emma’s shoulder and said we should head home. I hadn’t drunk much alcohol, mostly just pretending to sip. Emma, on the other hand, seemed quite drunk, stumbling as she stood up. I had found out beforehand that Emma’s mom was on a business trip recently, and her dad worked night shifts. Emma would be alone at home. I looked at Emma. “Emma, bye-bye.” “See you tomorrow.” “Oh, right,” I said, smiling at her. “You have a bit of a cold today. Remember to take the cold medicine when you get home.” Emma nodded with a smile. In the glow of the setting sun, her eyes seemed to hold a gentle flame. I calmly returned home, had dinner with my mom, and finished my homework as usual. Then I peacefully fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up with a splitting headache. I found that my mind was filled with new memories. I knew I had succeeded.

Emma was dead. When Emma’s mom returned home that night, she found Emma collapsed in the living room. By the time they got to the hospital, it was too late. After investigation, the police concluded it was poisoning caused by taking cephalosporin antibiotics and alcohol at the same time. In an era when the internet wasn’t as developed, we middle school students weren’t aware of this common knowledge. Except for me, who had three years of my father’s memories. Everything went too smoothly, even beyond my expectations. I had considered many possibilities. Emma might not have taken the medicine as I suggested. Emma might have called for help in time after feeling unwell. Emma’s mom might have returned home early and stopped Emma. And so on. The fact that it went so smoothly, doesn’t it mean that even God was on my side? As Emma’s best friend and the last person to see her alive, I was called to the police station to give a statement. I was a minor, so a parent needed to accompany me. Looking at the police officer, I appeared very scared. Mom comforted me. “It’s okay, the officer just wants to ask you a few questions.” “That’s right, little girl, don’t be afraid. I just want to ask you a few questions,” the officer reassured me. They didn’t really think a little girl like me could do anything. “According to the deceased’s mother, the deceased didn’t usually drink alcohol, but you two were drinking outside that day,” he said. “Why is that?” I looked a bit scared and glanced at my mom. Mom patted me encouragingly, indicating that it was okay, just tell the truth. “Emma said she wanted to drink that day, wanted to feel excited, and suddenly took out two bottles of alcohol from her bag,” I said. “I didn’t want to drink at first, and I tried to persuade Emma not to, but who knew…” As I spoke, tears started falling uncontrollably. The officer nodded. The security footage indeed showed Emma forcefully handing me the alcohol. The officer asked a few more innocuous questions, then let me leave. The case was ultimately classified as a tragedy caused by a girl’s momentary rebellion combined with a lack of common knowledge. Emma’s death was even used as a cautionary tale within the school. I organized my thoughts and felt like I had discovered a new world. It turned out that Emma’s brain contained so much knowledge. My grades improved dramatically, making my mom very happy. I was happy too. On exam day, I performed normally and achieved the good grades I had hoped for. Mom sold our house and bought a new one near the school. My new bedroom was big, with a large window, and I even had my own study. During the summer break, I frantically previewed the high school curriculum. So when high school started, my grades were pretty good. But I knew this wasn’t a long-term solution. I didn’t have a talent for studying; I wasn’t smart. Even with Emma’s solid knowledge base, I would fall behind later. Last time, luck played too big a role. This time, I needed to carefully plan my high school life.

I set my sights on Jack. He was the top student in our grade and my classmate. Jack was as brilliant as his name suggested. With his handsome looks and academic halo, he was never short of girls who liked him. And I was so ordinary. It seemed we would never have any connection. Through observation and online searches, I discovered Jack’s most frequently used chat app. It was a very niche app. The app featured anonymous chatting and didn’t have message notifications. I scoured through almost all of Jack’s posts for analysis – he was a sunny and lively boy from a well-off family; he had low blood sugar and often carried sweets; he seemed to enjoy reading classic novels and mystery novels. I changed my profile picture on the app to a beautiful jasmine flower, Jack’s favorite flower. I didn’t directly add Jack as a friend but slowly built up my account. I started sharing daily posts regularly, shaping myself into someone with similar interests to him. After a while, my account had a few followers and no longer looked like a zombie account. “What do you think Makoto was thinking when she killed Yukio?” I posted out of the blue. It was a plot point from Riyoko Ikeda’s “Virgin Mary.” Jack hadn’t mentioned reading this book in any of his posts, but I had seen him reading it in class. There was no response to the message after I sent it. I waited patiently. A day later, I received a response from Jack. “Protection and fear, I guess.” “Hello, how did you know I was reading this?” “Fear? Do you think Makoto was afraid of Yukio?” I ignored his second question. “I think Makoto was afraid of past memories.” Realizing I had no intention of revealing my identity, Jack didn’t pursue it further. We continued chatting about our interests. At first, it was just one or two sentences a day, and I would quickly withdraw after getting a response. As time passed, Jack found that I was a book enthusiast with interests very similar to his. Our chat times gradually became longer, moving from books to movies. Until one day, Jack asked me: “You’re really interesting. I’d like to know how old you are? Which city are you in?” I didn’t respond. For several days, I didn’t reply to any of Jack’s messages. He sent many messages, apologizing for his intrusive questions. About a week later, I finally responded to his message. “If you want to know me, come to the rooftop of the teaching building tonight.”

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Jack’s junior, Emma, got hounded by loan sharks. I tried to stop Jack from getting involved, but Emma was driven to suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. Jack, unaffected, continued to plan our wedding. Until one day, after getting drunk, he tenderly caressed a photo of Emma and forced me to down a bottle of sleeping pills. He said if it weren’t for my cold, heartless, and selfish attitude, Emma wouldn’t have taken her own life. If I had a second chance, I wouldn’t meddle in their business anymore. I had been reborn—reborn to the day when James Hamilton started borrowing money all over the place for Emily Rose. Emily was his junior, and just like her name suggests, she was gentle and delicate, with features as pretty as a painting. But she had a father addicted to gambling, and over the years, he’d borrowed a huge amount of money from loan sharks. Unable to repay it, he took his own life, leaving behind a daughter who was hounded by creditors day and night. To be fair, James treated me well—everyone knew he loved me like no other. That’s why, in my previous life, when he started borrowing money for Emily, saying she was like a sister to him and he couldn’t bear to see her suffer, I didn’t think much of it. But Emily’s father owed over $8 million. Coming up with that kind of money was nearly impossible. Plus, these loan sharks weren’t exactly good people—you could lose more than just money if you got mixed up with them. Naturally, I didn’t want my soon-to-be-husband getting dragged into this mess, so I gave James all of my savings on the condition that he stop involving himself with Emily’s problems and focus on our wedding. But I never expected Emily would take her own life by overdosing on sleeping pills. When I heard the news, I felt a pang of sorrow. After all, she was just a young woman burdened with a father like that. James seemed sad for a brief moment, but he didn’t say much to me. What I couldn’t have imagined was that he would one day kill me for Emily. Now, as I looked at James standing anxiously before me, his last words to me before I died played on repeat in my mind. “I told you, Emily and I weren’t like that! Why, why couldn’t you just help her? “Your family’s got money, doesn’t it? You rich people never understand this kind of desperation. Clara, you’re selfish and heartless!” “You can watch her die and still expect me to marry someone as cold and cruel as you? “All rich people are scum!” Thinking back, I laughed. My family’s annual income was in the millions, and as their only child, my parents never liked James, who came from a rural background. They wanted me to marry someone more suitable, but I was so in love with James that they cut off my finances, hoping I’d come to my senses. But James resented me because I didn’t ask my family for money to save his precious junior. $8 million—did he really think I’d ruin my life just to help him and his little crush?

Seeing I hadn’t responded, James cupped my face tenderly. The expression I once loved now filled me with disgust. “Babe, you know I just feel sorry for her. She’s been through so much. You know how long we’ve known each other, and Emily really likes you too.” I brushed his hands off and said coldly, “I’m not getting money from my parents anymore because of you. Where would I get the money to give to you?” James didn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm in my voice. “Babe, you’re their only child. If you explain the situation, your parents will definitely help, won’t they?” I shot back, “Do you like Emily?” For a second, guilt flickered across his eyes, but he quickly hid it. “How could I, babe? Everyone knows you’re the one I love most. Emily’s just my junior, and I feel sorry for her. That’s all. Don’t overthink it.” I stood up, not even glancing his way. “She’s your friend, not mine. I have no obligation to fix her family’s mess.” James frowned. “Clara, aren’t you the kindest, most understanding person? What’s happened to your empathy? Your family’s rich. Your parents are still alive and well, and they’ve got income. But Emily? Her mom’s been gone for years, and she’s stuck with a father like that. You’re acting like Marie Antoinette!” Saying that, he grabbed his debit card and stormed out, heading straight for Emily’s house. I couldn’t believe the audacity—how could James make it seem like all of Emily’s problems were somehow my fault? I quickly packed my bags and sent him a text: We’re done. Then, I blocked him from everything. This time, I wanted to see how long James could survive without my support. Right now, his company was still in its startup phase. In my past life, I knelt before my parents to help him, drank myself sick at business dinners, and gave my all for his company. And what did he do? Did he even love me? During those intimate nights, who was really on his mind—me, or his junior, Emily, who had already taken her own life?

I returned home with my bags, and my parents were visibly shocked. My dad huffed, “If you’re back because of him, you might as well leave. Your mom and I can’t stand the sight of you when it’s about him.” Seeing my parents healthy and alive, I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up. In my last life, after James killed me, how devastated must my parents have been when they found my body? At that thought, I collapsed at the doorway, sobbing uncontrollably. My mom nudged my dad and frowned. “This is your fault! Why do you have to be so harsh? Look at her, she’s crying her heart out.” I buried my face in my mom’s arms and cried until there was nothing left. Regret, bitterness, all of it poured out. “It’s okay, sweetie. What happened? Did James hurt you?” I nodded. “I… I broke up with him. I don’t love him anymore. I want to come home.” The look on my parents’ faces was priceless—they looked like they’d finally been freed from years of torment. Just to make sure, my dad cautiously asked, “You mean, the kind of breakup where you won’t be getting back together?” I smiled through my tears and nodded, then told them the whole story. My parents were furious. “I always knew that James was bad news! Your company, your future, everything—he made you put it all on the line. And now he has the nerve to turn it all back on you?” As my parents raged, I felt a pang of guilt. What had possessed me in my past life to throw my family aside for a man? “Welcome home, sweetheart. Welcome home.” My mom gently patted my back, soothing me the way she used to when I was a child. After such an overwhelming day, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. The next morning, I woke up to find twenty missed calls from James and a new Instagram post from Emily. In the photo, she was sitting in the passenger seat of James’s car, with him lovingly wiping her tears. The caption read: No matter what happens, I’ll always be by your side. Even though I had braced myself for this, my heart still ached when I saw it. James and I had been together for six years, and people used to joke that if we didn’t end up getting married, they’d stop believing in love. I guess love really does change, doesn’t it? My phone buzzed with a message from Emily: Clara, I’m so sorry about that Instagram post. You know my family’s situation has been really complicated, and Jack… well, he just felt sorry for me, so he stayed with me last night. I heard you broke up with him, but please don’t let it be because of me. I’d feel so guilty. I didn’t respond. Emily’s manipulations were so transparent, I didn’t even want to bother. Posting that picture, then sending me this message—what did she expect me to do? Beg James to come back to me? Or storm into her place and slap her? Emma Miles was as disgusting as James, a two-faced backstabber.

I once accidentally came across some of the messages between James and Emily. “You’re such a great senior, I’m so envious of Clara for finding a boyfriend like you.” “Clara’s so lucky. She has a loving family and a boyfriend who dotes on her. I wish I could have the same.” And, of course, James ate it all up, insisting on treating her like a little sister—bringing her food when she was hungry, water when she was thirsty. When Megan heard that I’d broken up with James, she insisted on dragging me out to celebrate. Her lively energy was contagious, and soon, I found myself in a much better mood. “You have no idea how much I’ve hated James,” Megan said, grinning from ear to ear. “Ever since you started dating him, you’ve barely had time to grab lunch with me. Being blinded by love is how people start losing themselves—and you, my friend, were the poster child for that!” Hearing her ramble on, I pulled her close and nodded eagerly in agreement. “I’m sorry, I really was an idiot, okay? You happy now?” Megan finally nodded with satisfaction and proceeded to drag me into every luxury store in the mall. As I walked through the aisles, it struck me how much I had changed since dating James. I’d stopped being my own person, morphing into someone whose life revolved entirely around him. With his business just taking off, he was always strapped for cash, and I hadn’t visited these beloved stores in ages. “Hey, isn’t that James?” Megan suddenly gasped, her eyes wide. I followed her gaze and spotted James, along with Emily, who was pulling a suitcase behind her. They seemed to be sneaking around, as if they were up to something. I didn’t want anything to do with them anymore, but Megan’s curiosity got the best of her. She insisted we go check it out. We watched as they entered a second-hand luxury bag store, and a suspicion began forming in my mind. “Isn’t that the limited edition bag I got you two years ago for your birthday?” Megan pointed to a high-end bag on display inside. I frowned. I’d left behind some things at James’s place when I packed up, planning to send movers to retrieve them later. I hadn’t expected James to take my bag and sell it for Emily’s sake. Without hesitation, I walked into the store. The moment James saw me, his face went from guilty to gleeful in an instant. “Clara! What a surprise! I’ve been trying to reach you. I was planning to explain everything once I wrapped up a few things—” Whack! I didn’t wait for him to finish. My hand landed square on his cheek, and James stared at me, utterly stunned. Emily quickly stepped forward to tend to his reddened face. “Clara, how could you hit him? He’s—” Whack! Another slap, this time for Emily. “Hitting you was just something I did on impulse,” I said, voice cold. Megan burst out laughing, while the rest of the store turned to watch the spectacle unfold.

“Clara, you crazy woman! Why are you hitting Emily? What did she ever do to you?” James pushed Emily behind him, shielding her like a mother hen. I pointed to the display of bags. “You’re selling my things without permission. Did you even bother to ask me first?” James’s face turned crimson. “I’m just borrowing them. It’s not like I wasn’t going to give them back.” “Borrow my things without asking? Do you realize that’s called theft? And we’ve broken up, James. You don’t get to touch my stuff anymore.” “Clara, how could you be so shallow? They’re just bags! You can always buy more. But you can’t put a price on someone’s life. Are you really okay watching Emily get pushed to the edge?” James was growing more agitated by the second, as if I was the one at fault in all of this. I couldn’t believe how shameless he was. “You’re trying to guilt-trip me? Let me tell you something—I don’t fall for that.” By now, the surrounding crowd was whispering among themselves, phones raised to record. “First of all, we’re no longer together. Second, those are my bags. And lastly, whatever help you want to give your dear Emily is none of my concern. What’s next? If you marry someone and have kids, are you going to ask me to pay their college tuition too?” James was left speechless. He knew he was in the wrong, but with everyone filming, he couldn’t afford to dig himself deeper. Reluctantly, he muttered, “Fine. These three bags—I bought them. I have every right to sell them.” Megan and I were floored. What kind of twisted logic was that? Since when does a boyfriend get to take back gifts after a breakup? “Fine, sell them if you want,” I replied dismissively. I had no interest in prolonging the argument. I turned to the store manager and said, “The rest of the bags are mine. Please assess their resale value and transfer the amount to my account.” It seemed that James knew his company’s finances were stretched thin, so he’d resorted to sneaky tactics like this. Men like him always want everything, don’t they? “Clara, are you really going to break up with me? You’re 28 now. Do you even realize how old that is? If you leave me now, who’s going to want you? Look, I’ll make it simple. Ask your parents for $500,000 to pay off Emily’s debt, and we can work things out.” James said this seriously, as if he was doing me a huge favor. “You’re delusional, James. If anything, you were the one who got lucky with me.” Megan, unable to contain herself any longer, chimed in. “Plus, my brother’s 32, single, and practically a golden bachelor—tall, handsome, and rich. Clara will be way better off without you. Go run back to your little green-tea princess.” With that, Megan grabbed my arm, and we stormed out of the store without looking back.

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After I died, my body was handled by my brother, James Murphy, a forensic pathologist. “The victim’s head is missing, and the body is severely decomposed, making it impossible to identify.” After completing his work, James called Isabella Murphy, my adopted sister, to celebrate her promotion at the Prestigious Company. At the same time, he sent me a message: [Megan Murphy, today is an important day for Isabella. You better be home on time!] [If you’re late, don’t bother setting foot in the Murphy house ever again!] But, James, do you know? The body you’re handling… it’s me. The sister you loved so much, the one who Isabella killed… Two weeks after my death, some locals found my dismembered body at Forest Edge while foraging. They called the police, and because my remains were found in Manchester, it was my brother, James Murphy, who was responsible for the post-mortem and identification. My soul hadn’t fully dissipated yet, and I watched as James, wearing a mask, inspected the body. Several police officers nearby grimaced. “This is horrific. Who could have done something so brutal to a girl?” “Exactly! Whoever did this deserves to be torn apart!” James frowned slightly but said nothing, ordering the remains to be taken back to the forensic lab. “The victim is female, approximately 23 years old. Initial estimates place the time of death around 16 days ago.” “There are multiple stab wounds on the chest, abdomen, and back, with the fatal wound located in the heart.” “From the pattern of injuries, she was stabbed four times in the chest, three times in the back, and around six times in the heart. After she died, the killer dismembered her body.” “The victim’s organs are missing—her kidneys, liver, and stomach were removed. The head is also missing, making facial recognition impossible.” “Additionally, the body is incomplete, missing the pelvis, left leg, and right hand. The remains are heavily decomposed. We’ll need to conduct a DNA test for further identification.” James handed the autopsy report to the police and removed his mask. “We still need to find the victim’s head and the missing body parts. The killer must have held a deep grudge to treat the victim with such cruelty.” “The head and hands may hold crucial evidence to identify the murderer.” “Got it!” Once the police left, James was about to sit down when his phone rang. I floated over to see that it was Isabella calling. “Brother, are you getting off work soon? Mum wants you home; otherwise, we won’t wait to cut the cake!” Isabella’s sweet, playful voice came through the line, and James smiled, clearly enjoying it. He quickened his pace as he packed up his things. “You little brat, why not wait for me? Tell Mum I’ll be home in twenty minutes!” “Today’s your big day—you think I’d miss celebrating your promotion?” After hanging up, he frowned, scrolled through his phone, and found my message thread. [Megan Murphy, today is Isabella’s most important day. You better be on time!] [Before you get home, pick up a gift and apologize to Isabella for spreading lies!] [Otherwise, don’t bother coming back to the Murphy house!] He sent the message, then glanced at the remains on the autopsy table. My heart raced—had he realized it was me? But a moment later, he just irritably switched off his phone, packed his things, and left the office. I felt a pang in my chest, but no tears fell. James, did you know? You were only inches away from me. If you had looked just a little closer at my body, you’d have seen the birthmark on my wrist—the one you always said would help you find me no matter what. You promised no one could ever take me away, but you broke that promise. And worse, you didn’t know that the sister you cherish, Isabella, is the one who killed me.

When I was six, I was abducted by traffickers. Mum was so devastated that she fell into a deep depression. To ease her pain, Dad went to an orphanage and adopted Isabella. When I was found by the police at fifteen, I thought my parents had been waiting for me. But when I returned home, I found the entire family orbiting around Isabella. The brother who used to spoil me, the father who always made sure I ate, and the mother who used to sing me lullabies—when they saw me, the first thing they said was: “Even though you’ve come back, Isabella will feel hurt. She’ll think we love her less now that you’re here.” Isabella moved into my old room, and Dad said: “Megan, you’ve always been sensible. Since you’re back now, let Isabella have her way—she’s younger than you!” “Megan, Isabella is an orphan. We’re all she has. You’re her sister now, and you have to love her too, okay?” Isabella blew out the candles on my birthday cake, and Mum said: “Megan, Isabella has never had a birthday before. Let her blow out your candles and eat the cake. She deserves it more.” Isabella took my beloved British Folklore Jigsaw Puzzle, and James said: “If she likes it, let her have it. I’ve given you plenty of things, and Isabella’s never seen or played with any of them. I’ll buy you something new later.” … Memories flooded my mind, and even though I was now just a soul, my heart still ached. I had thought that once I came home, my parents and brother would love me even more. But I was wrong. Isabella had replaced me, stealing all the love from my family. But aren’t I their real daughter? As my soul followed James home, I watched Isabella excitedly throw herself into his arms, and he smiled, hugging her back. “You’ve made us so proud. Securing a promotion at a Prestigious Company was no small feat.” Mum beamed with pride, and Dad handed Isabella a knife to cut the cake. “James is home too! Let’s cut the cake together—it’s Isabella’s favorite, Strawberry Sponge Cake!” Isabella grinned as she cut the cake, giving slices to Mum, Dad, and James. They looked like a perfect, happy family. Halfway through the meal, they finally remembered there was someone missing. “James, didn’t you message Megan to come celebrate with us? Why isn’t she here yet?” Mum asked. I looked up, my heart swelling with hope. Maybe Mum still cared about me after all. James’s face darkened immediately. “Don’t worry about her! She had the nerve to spread rumors that Isabella was using drugs. God knows who filled her head with that nonsense!” “Forget about her. Ever since she came back, she’s been acting crazy. If she doesn’t want to come, we can still have a happy birthday for Isabella without her!” Dad’s face turned grim as well, and he reassured Mum. Mum didn’t think much of it and continued eating. I curled up in the corner, bitterly smiling to myself. Of course, as long as Isabella is around, they wouldn’t even think about me. They didn’t notice the flash of guilt on Isabella’s face, though. She had every reason to be guilty, because I wasn’t lying. She really was using drugs. Isabella had been playing the role of the sweet, innocent daughter at home, but in reality, she was a wild delinquent. Since I came back, I could see the hatred in her eyes. She would intentionally provoke me and then cry to make our parents and James take her side. I was driven to the brink of insanity, but Dad just called me crazy. I had developed a habit of staying up late, and about a month ago, I noticed that Isabella would often sneak out when our parents weren’t paying attention. She’d return home reeking of smoke and alcohol, looking completely drained the next morning. But she’d tell Mum and James it was all from working hard, and they’d fall for it, feeling sorry for her to the point of tears. Half a month ago, I went into her room to retrieve a notebook she’d borrowed under the pretense of “work research,” and that’s when I found it—drug paraphernalia. And worse, I uncovered links between her so-called prestigious company and an illegal organ trafficking ring connected to Southeast Asia. I was terrified. I ran to tell Mum and Dad, but they wouldn’t believe me. They thought I was jealous of Isabella’s success. “What are you trying to do, Megan? Spread lies that your sister’s into drugs?” “Megan Murphy, Isabella is an orphan! We’re all she has. Are you so jealous you want to drive her out and make her suffer again?” “Get out! Don’t come back until you know what you’ve done wrong!” They didn’t believe me. Even James turned his back on me. I was devastated, and I stormed out of the house. But as soon as I stepped out, I was grabbed by several large men, who dragged me into an alley where no one would see. I never imagined how much pain a knife could cause when it plunged into your body. I never thought Isabella would actually want me dead, but here I was, surrounded by her company’s thugs. Through blurry eyes, I saw her standing there, smiling down at me—a smile as sinister as a poisonous flower. “Megan, I bet you’re wondering why I’ve always been against you.” “Who wouldn’t want to stay in a rich family, with fancy clothes and loads of money to spend? Why should I leave just because you came back?” “I only wish you’d never been found by the police in the first place!” As I took my final breaths, they stuffed my body into a car trunk, cleaned up the blood, and drove to the countryside. Isabella, blood splattered on her face, finished me off with terrifying precision. Her smile was grotesque, twisted in a way that sent shivers down my spine, even as I lay dying. After disposing of my body, she cleaned herself up and went home, acting as if nothing had happened. And all that time, neither Mum, Dad, nor James even thought to wonder where I was.

After celebrating Isabella’s promotion, James returned to his own place. He had a house near the Manchester Police Department, making it easier to respond to calls quickly. He poured himself a glass of water and sat on the sofa. After a moment, he pulled out his phone, but his hand hesitated. He hadn’t moved the screen for a while. I floated over and saw it was my message thread. I hadn’t responded to any of his texts, not that he’d been replying to me for the past few months. The last few texts were all one-sided, from me to him. James clicked his tongue, scrolling through our messages: [Hey, did you remember to take your stomach medicine? I got more for you—don’t forget to bring it!] [James, I’ve been stuck on a work problem. Could I ask you for advice?] [Today’s my birthday, will you be coming home?] My birthday had been the day Isabella killed me. It took James a moment to realize this as he opened his calendar and saw the red heart marking the date: Megan’s 23rd Birthday. He froze for a moment, then quickly exited the calendar app and called Mum. “Mum, did Megan call the house about half a month ago?” Mum hesitated. “No, she didn’t. Wasn’t that the day she had a fight with Isabella? Why?” James paused, then said, “No reason.” After hanging up, he grew visibly frustrated. He tried calling me, but no one answered. More irritated now, he opened our chat and started sending voice messages: [Megan, have you grown up now? Who taught you to run off and not take responsibility for your actions?] [You’ve got two hours to call me back, or you can forget about calling me brother ever again!] I looked at him in confusion. Hadn’t he just told me I wasn’t allowed home unless I apologized to Isabella? I always loved James, but I was also terrified of him. When I didn’t finish my schoolwork, he’d scold me. When I disobeyed, he’d rush home to discipline me. Over time, a wall had grown between us. Isabella, on the other hand, could joke around with him, bother him whenever she wanted, and he would always be patient and kind with her. His smile never faded when she was around. I felt dizzy, my soul growing lighter, as if I were losing my grip on existence. I was fading, but somehow, I couldn’t disappear completely. That’s when James finally lost his composure. He grabbed his coat and stormed out, heading straight to the police department. I followed him as he went back to the forensic lab, put on gloves, and began working again. But just as he was examining my remains for further evidence, he suddenly froze. His fingers brushed over the birthmark on my wrist—a small heart-shaped mark, something unique. When we were kids, he used to poke that mark and say, “Megan’s a gift from the heavens. They gave her a heart-shaped mark so I’ll always find her, no matter what.” Now, James stared at the birthmark for what felt like an eternity. I thought I must be imagining things. Why would he tremble if he hated me so much? I shook my head, ready to close my eyes and conserve my strength when he pulled out his phone and made a call. “Mum, are you sure Megan didn’t call home after she left?” For the first time in ages, he called me by my nickname instead of my full name. “Well, now that you mention it…” Mum’s voice was hesitant. “She used to call every day. It’s strange that she didn’t this time…” “Mum, do you think Megan didn’t come home because of me? If so, I—” “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dad interrupted. “I haven’t even confronted Megan for spreading those lies about you, Isabella!” “James, stop worrying. She’ll come crawling back. Where else would she go?” Yes, Dad. Where else would I go? You’re all I have, and the Murphy family is all I’ve ever known. But now, you only care about Isabella, the one who murdered me. James hung up the phone, bracing himself against the autopsy table. He shook his head. “It can’t be…” “There are plenty of people with birthmarks. It’s not her…” As he was about to continue, his phone rang again. “James, we found some fabric remnants on the hillside.” “We traced the fabric to a brand store. The staff confirmed it’s an old classic model, with fewer than thirty owners.” “Seventeen of those are men. The remaining thirteen women have no missing persons reports.” “James, I’ve sent you a list.” James opened the message and enlarged the photo. The next second, his face turned pale with disbelief. The last name on the list was Megan Murphy.

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When our daughter died in the earthquake, my wife was off visiting her high school sweetheart. I asked her to attend Chloe’s funeral, but she looked at me with disgust, her voice dripping with disdain. “Can you stop being ridiculous? David and his daughter are injured and need someone to care for them.” She didn’t seem to realize that David and Emily only had minor injuries, while my daughter was gone forever. Later, after we divorced, she finally understood—without me, she was nothing. “Dad, I’m so cold.” Chloe trembled in my arms, her whole body shaking. The fierce winter wind howled through the broken walls. I reached out as best I could, trying to share whatever warmth I had left with her. “Don’t worry, Chloe. Daddy’s here.” “Mom’s outside. She’ll be here soon to save us.” When the earthquake hit, Chloe and I were home. The sudden collapse trapped us under the rubble, with my legs pinned beneath a slab of concrete, leaving me immobile. Luckily, my wife, Sarah, was in Bristol, safe from the disaster. I was certain she’d come back to rescue us soon. “Dad, my leg hurts.” I looked down and saw a dark stain of blood spreading beneath her. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but Chloe’s injuries were far worse than mine. My heart clenched painfully, and tears began to fall. “Chloe, hold Daddy’s hand. Just hang on a little longer, okay?” Even though she was in pain, my sweet girl nodded in agreement. She’d always been so well-behaved, even now. We waited in the freezing rubble for what felt like hours, until I was nearly at the point of collapse. Then, at last, I heard footsteps above us. It was Sarah. She had finally come with help. Hope surged in my chest. I shouted with all my remaining strength. “Sarah, we’re here!” Chloe heard her too, her tiny voice calling out in excitement. “Mom! Mom, Chloe’s here!” “Mom, please come save us!” I reached out, weakly tapping a pipe beside me, trying to make as much noise as possible. My heart pounded with relief—Chloe was going to be saved. But to my horror, the footsteps paused only briefly above us, then moved away, fading into the distance. I froze. I couldn’t believe that Sarah had mistaken our house, or that she hadn’t heard our desperate cries. No, there was only one explanation. She was going to the house behind ours—to save David, her high school sweetheart. It was so cold that my tears froze almost instantly on my cheeks. I held Chloe tightly, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “Chloe, hang in there just a little longer. Mom… Mom will come back for us.” In the darkness, Chloe’s quiet sobs broke the silence. “Dad, you’re lying, aren’t you?” “Mom’s not coming to save us. She’s saving David instead.” No child should ever have to bear such a truth. I pulled her closer, holding her shivering body against mine. “Dad, did I do something wrong?” “Why doesn’t Mom ever smile at me? Does she not like me?” “But why… why doesn’t she love me?” As she spoke, I felt her little body grow colder and colder. In that moment, the pain in my legs no longer mattered. All I cared about was keeping my daughter alive. Unable to move my arms, I began banging my head against the pipe, over and over. Blood streamed down my face, but the only sound in the icy night was the dull thudding of my futile efforts. Sarah never came back. Chloe was gone. The vibrant little girl who once danced around and called me “Daddy” had died, right there, when her mother abandoned us. When I felt her body go completely cold, my world went dark. All my hope, all my effort, had been in vain. Sarah had chosen David Campbell over our daughter, and Chloe had paid the price. I slumped over and blacked out.

When I woke again, the sterile scent of disinfectant filled my nose. The memories came rushing back, and the crushing weight of grief settled in my chest. “Chloe!” I screamed her name. Nurses rushed in, asking me how I felt, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t feel any pain in my broken leg, which was now suspended in a cast. “Where’s my Chloe? Where is she?” The nurses went silent. The head nurse looked at me with sympathy, her face heavy with sorrow. “Mr. Blake, I’m so sorry for your loss.” In that moment, it felt like someone had ripped my heart from my chest. The pain was so overwhelming that I couldn’t breathe. Everything around me fell silent. All I could hear was Chloe’s voice. She was calling, “Daddy, help me.” But I hadn’t been able to save her. And the one person who could have—her mother—had chosen to abandon us. It took a long time for me to calm down. Finally, I asked to see Chloe one last time. The nurses resisted at first, but eventually they relented and helped me into a wheelchair. On the way, I heard a voice coming from the room next door. Sarah’s voice. The anger inside me flared into a raging storm. I remembered how she could have saved Chloe, but instead, she saved David. I pushed open the door, ignoring the nurses trying to stop me. The sight before me was like a knife to the heart. Sarah was holding a little girl—David’s daughter, Emily. She was comforting her, smiling at David with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. They looked like a perfect family. When Sarah saw me, the warmth in her eyes instantly disappeared. Her voice was sharp and annoyed. “Why are you barging in like this? Can’t you see that David and Emily are still recovering?” I glanced at them. They had nothing but a few scrapes. Yet Sarah was treating them as if they were the most precious people in the world. Meanwhile, her own husband was sitting in a wheelchair with a broken leg, and her daughter—our daughter—was dead. And she didn’t spare a word of concern. I rolled my wheelchair closer. “Sarah, your daughter is dead.” “Do you know why she died?” “It’s because, when you passed by our house, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t care. You chose to save David instead.” Sarah’s eyes flickered. She opened her mouth as if to say something but then shook her head. “John, can you stop with this jealousy nonsense?” “You’re just trying to make me feel guilty, to blame David for what happened.” I stared at her, feeling like I was looking at a stranger. I couldn’t believe that this woman—the woman I had loved for seven years—could say something so heartless. “Do you really think I would make up Chloe’s death just to spite you?” Sarah narrowed her eyes, her expression mocking. “Wouldn’t you?” “All you ever do is use Chloe to guilt-trip me or to attack David and Emily. What else do you do?” Two years ago, David and his daughter had arrived in the city with nothing. They showed up at our house in the middle of the night. I pitied them and offered them a villa we weren’t using. I even found David an easy job. But in Sarah’s eyes, I had somehow become the villain, targeting them. I laughed bitterly. “Sarah, do you even believe the things you’re saying?” Her face darkened. “At least I don’t resort to underhanded tricks like you.” “Underhanded? Me?” I asked, incredulous. “You’re the one with something to hide, not me.” Disappointment settled deep in my chest. In that moment, I realized I had nothing left to expect from her. “Chloe’s biggest regret in life,” I said quietly, “was having a mother like you.” Without waiting for her response, I turned and left the room.

After Chloe was cremated, I began to prepare her funeral. The little girl who had embodied every bit of joy and warmth in my life was now reduced to a cold urn of ashes, resting in my hands. After much thought, I decided that Sarah should still be invited to the funeral. Despite everything, she was Chloe’s mother. She deserved to be there. I called her again and again, but my calls either went straight to voicemail or rang endlessly without being answered. With each unanswered call, the silence around me felt heavier. In the distance, I could hear laughter coming from the room next door. I never expected that, even after our daughter’s death, my wife wouldn’t want to attend her funeral. Suddenly, a soft ping alerted me to a message on my phone. I checked it and saw a notification for a bank deduction of fifteen thousand pounds. Fifteen thousand wasn’t a huge sum for me, but the recipient caught my attention—St. George’s Hospital. I hadn’t made any payments for my own care yet, so there was only one possibility. Sarah had used my card to pay for David and Emily’s hospital fees! While Chloe lay in a cold, lifeless urn, David and his daughter were enjoying the luxury of a private hospital suite, all paid for with my money. Rage bubbled up inside me. Without a second thought, I stormed into the room next door. David didn’t even bother to look up, assuming it was Sarah. “You’re back so soon, Sarah?” he said casually. “Emily was just saying how much she missed you.” The irony hit me like a slap in the face. Sarah, who couldn’t even be bothered to check on our daughter, rushed to David’s side the moment Emily expressed the slightest longing for her. There was no point in pretending anymore. I said coldly, “David, you’ve racked up fifteen thousand pounds in hospital bills. How would you like to pay? Cash or transfer?” David’s head jerked up in shock, his large eyes wide with fear. “John… What are you doing here?” I gave him a bitter smile, pulling out my phone to show him the bank notification. “Sarah doesn’t have any money of her own. Everything she’s spent on you—this hospital stay, the fancy clothes, the villa rent—has all come out of my pocket.” “This time, it’s fifteen thousand. Add to that everything else I’ve provided for you, and the rent on the villa. You owe me one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds.” David’s face turned pale. “That’s impossible… You must have made a mistake. How could it add up to that much?” I was about to answer when Sarah stormed into the room, cutting me off. “John, what are you doing? Are you seriously harassing David and Emily while I’m not here?” “They’re still recovering, and you have the audacity to ask them for money?” “Is there anything in your world besides money?” Sarah shoved me aside, placing herself protectively between me and David.

Before I could respond, David jumped in, trying to sound pitiful. “Sarah, I’ve only just come to this city. I don’t know anyone here. You were the only person I could turn to.” “I never thought your husband would be upset over something like that.” “And now, when we’re still not fully healed, he’s trying to throw us out of the hospital.” I stared at him in disbelief, stunned by how easily he twisted the truth. I shifted my gaze to Sarah, who stood defiantly at his side. “David, you know very well why you came here,” I said icily. “And you know I haven’t thrown you out or done anything to force you.” “You’ve eaten my food, lived in my house, and now you’re turning the tables on me?” “Does that not weigh on your conscience?” David’s face grew even paler. He pressed a hand to his chest and started coughing violently, as if overcome by the stress. Seeing him struggle, Sarah snapped. Without warning, she slapped me across the face. The force of the blow left me stunned. I raised a hand to my stinging cheek, staring at her in disbelief. Sarah sneered at me, her lips curling in contempt. “That slap was for David.” I laughed, but the taste of salt reminded me that I wasn’t amused—I was heartbroken. “Sarah, remember this.” “From this moment on, I will act as though Chloe never had a mother like you.” I didn’t wait for her response. I turned my wheelchair around and left the room. Whatever happened from here, I was done. I would never allow them to hurt me again. Chloe’s funeral was set for the next day. The sky was heavy with thick clouds, blocking out the sun. Before long, a mixture of rain and snow began to fall. Sarah knew what day it was—she knew it was our daughter’s funeral—but she didn’t show up. While I sat alone in the cold, holding Chloe’s tiny urn, I saw something that made my blood boil. David had posted a photo on his social media—a picture of him, Sarah, and Emily, smiling happily together. They looked like the perfect family. I was drenched, pushing my wheelchair through the rain, clutching Chloe’s ashes, when suddenly, a figure appeared beside me. An umbrella shielded me from the rain, and I looked up to see Samantha Quinn. We’d been childhood friends, but ever since I married Sarah, we had drifted apart. I never expected her to show up at my daughter’s funeral. “I know you’re in pain,” she said gently, “but now isn’t the time to fall apart.” Her bright, clear eyes seemed to see straight into my heart, as if she knew everything I was feeling. She was right. It wasn’t time to break down. Not yet. There was something I needed to do. After the funeral, I sent Sarah a message. It was simple—just five words: Let’s get a divorce.

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When I died, he was holding another woman in his arms. The plan succeeded. I will become the pain he can never forget. “Miss Lewis, here’s your medication. Please take it.” I accepted the white bottle and thanked the pharmacist. With sleeping pills, I could finally get some rest. The plan was ready to begin. I sat in the taxi, staring at the message Chris Jude had just sent me. “I’m attending a gala tonight. Won’t be home.” I knew exactly what kind of gala this was—Wendy Summers’ welcome-back party. Wendy Summers was quite something. She had been with Chris for just one year, yet had him completely wrapped around her finger. I’d stayed by Chris’s side from the age of twenty-one to twenty-seven—six whole years. And still, I couldn’t compete with a single tear from Wendy. I had lived this life once before. In the end, Chris married Wendy, and I died on their wedding day. Mentally broken, I jumped off a building. I got nothing. How could I just accept that? So, I came back—this time to when Chris was nineteen. In the original timeline, I would have met Chris when he was twenty-one. He had just started his business, and I became his right-hand assistant. My family preferred boys, while his was shattered. Two wounded souls, licking each other’s wounds. For six long years, we even discussed marriage. But then, Wendy came back. Not only did she return, but she openly declared her lingering feelings for Chris at the gala. They rekindled their old flame, and my six years of youth became the collateral. Nineteen-year-old Chris was still the rich kid of the Jude family, with the world at his feet, dating the prettiest girl—Wendy Summers. At twenty, his family lost everything. Wendy left the country, and his life took a nosedive. I knew everything, so I entered his world early. I didn’t interfere with his relationship with Wendy; this plan needed an executioner, and this year—the one Chris had cherished most—was it. I watched Chris date Wendy. Watched them hold each other. Watched them kiss. I saw, with painful clarity, all the sweet memories Wendy once told me about. For an entire year, my heart soaked in their syrupy romance until it was drenched and rotting. I waited quietly, biding my time. When Wendy left the country, I entered Chris’s world, armed with genuine love as he fell into despair. How foolish twenty-year-old Chris was—childish and stubborn. Over and over, he rejected me, waiting for Wendy. How does that saying go? “Love is long-lasting when it comes from companionship.” Eventually, Chris accepted me. I stayed by his side during his darkest year. After that, things unfolded as I remembered: He rose from a scrappy entrepreneur to a business tycoon. From rejecting me to almost proposing. And then—this gala. “Miss, we’ve arrived.” The sound of the horn broke my thoughts. I picked up my phone, the screen still displaying my chat with Chris. The last message was from 11:35 AM. “Do you want me to pick you up? Don’t drink too much, I’m worried about you.” Chris hadn’t replied. I stepped out of the car, doing something I had no memory of ever doing. The plan started here. Inside the bar, lights flickered. I spotted Chris immediately, seated with his back to me. He was dressed in a suit, standing out amidst the quirky outfits surrounding him. Wendy Summers was right next to him in a black dress. She didn’t fit in with the crowd either, but at least she matched Chris. The people sitting around them were all familiar—the same crowd Chris used to hang out with back in his rich-kid days. I waited a long time, thinking I wouldn’t see anything. Then, suddenly, laughter erupted from across the room. They were egging them on, loudly. Wendy stood up and kissed Chris on the lips. My hand shook as I raised my phone, zooming in and capturing the moment. I couldn’t see Chris’s expression, but Wendy’s smile was unmistakable. My hand trembled, my heart clenched painfully. So, even in the days I knew nothing about, they had shared an unspeakable connection. Chris seemed to sense something and turned his head. I quickly pulled my hat down and left. He didn’t see me. Back at our place, the emptiness was suffocating. An empty home never felt good. I showered and sat on the couch, counting the minutes on the clock. 1:28 AM. The sound of keys turning in the door. I opened my eyes, still groggy, and rushed into Chris’s arms. He caught me, patting my head. His deep voice sounded in my ear. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes? You’ll catch a cold.” I cupped his face, gently stroking the spot where Wendy’s lips had been, my voice muffled. “Where have you been? You were gone so long, and you didn’t reply to my messages.” He paused but didn’t answer. He simply carried me to the couch and put socks on my feet. I kicked him lightly in protest. “Why won’t you say anything?” He ruffled my hair, as if resigned. “A very important client. I didn’t drink. My phone was off, so I didn’t see your messages.” I looked into his eyes, and I was all I could see there. Chris, you’re lying. I didn’t press him further and, as always, started playfully teasing him again.

The next morning, Chris left for work early. Once he was gone, I crawled out of bed and headed to the study. Among piles of documents and classic novels sat my diary. I pulled it out, flipping through each page, where my thoughts lay bare—from the moment I met Chris until now. During the years Wendy Summers was gone, I received a level of affection I never had in my previous life. Maybe it was because I stood by him during his lowest moments that Chris treated me differently. Even though I knew Wendy still lived in his heart, I sometimes wavered, wondering: Maybe this time will be different? But then I would remember those six years. I remembered how, despite all that time together, Wendy had returned, taken the place meant for me, worn the wedding dress I had picked, and kissed Chris on the day of my death. The thought drove me mad with hatred. Chris had to suffer, just like me—day and night, tormented by despair. Tears fell onto my diary as I traced the photo I had taken that day. Each stroke of my hand carved deeper wounds into my heart. I had thought the pain would be gone by now. “I went to pick up Chris. I saw a girl kiss him. She was happy, but I was devastated.” On a fresh page, I jotted down these few lines. Excitement and restraint warred within me—strange, yet oddly enjoyable. I closed the diary and returned it to its spot. Then I put on light makeup and slipped into a white dress. The reflection in the mirror was serene, gentle—so different from Wendy’s boldness. I smiled at the girl in the mirror, who smiled back at me, her dimples as sweet as honey. Chris had complimented me long ago, saying I looked beautiful when I smiled. But I didn’t like smiling anymore, not after coming back to relive this life. Now, I preferred crying. Falling apart in tears reminded me I was still alive, with real emotions, made of flesh and blood. Crying reminded me of Chris’s coldness and Wendy’s provocation.

After leaving home, I went to Chris’s office. The employees all knew who I was, but they avoided eye contact, which gave me a clue. And I was right. Through the glass window of his office, I saw Chris and Wendy sitting at the same table, sharing a meal. Wendy picked up a piece of carrot, about to feed it to Chris. He frowned but still ate it. Chris hated carrots. My hands clenched and unclenched at my sides. I couldn’t control myself—I pushed open the door and slapped Wendy across the face. “He has a girlfriend! Didn’t you know? How can you be so shameless? Get out!” Wendy’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then tears started falling. Sobbing, she explained, “I… I didn’t know. I don’t understand why you’re hitting me. We’re just friends. You misunderstood, right, Chris?” I turned to look at Chris. He thought for a long time before finally speaking. “Anna, stop making a scene. Wendy’s just an old friend. You hit her without hearing the full story. Apologize to her.” My hand holding the lunchbox began to tremble. Chris, you’re lying again. The tension in the room hung thick as Wendy continued to sob, shattering Chris’s patience. “Anna Lewis, if you hit someone, you need to apologize! Say sorry to Wendy!” Chris frowned, tapping the table impatiently. I had rarely seen him this upset. Suddenly, I was reminded of Chris at twenty—how I had gone out of my way to please him, and how stubborn he’d been, telling me over and over, “Anna, I’ll never love you. You should give up.” It was exactly the same now—all because of Wendy. Memories rushed up, filling my eyes with tears that I tried to hold back. With my throat tight, I forced the words out. “I’m sorry.” Chris’s expression softened, and he smiled. “Anna, come sit and eat with us.” Wendy chimed in, her voice bright and proud. “Yeah, Anna, join us! I got this food especially for Chris from a famous restaurant!” She looked at me, unable to hide the challenge in her eyes. I stayed calm, not causing a scene again. Chris seemed delighted. I placed the lunchbox on the table, and Chris suddenly froze, as if remembering something. I knew what was on his mind. Every day, I brought him lunch—it was our routine. But today, he had eaten Wendy’s meal. Suppressing the tremor in my voice, I smiled and said, “I brought you lunch, but since you’ve already eaten, I’ll head home.” Chris opened his mouth but only managed a single word. “Okay.” I turned and left, determined. Out of Chris’s sight, the tears finally rolled down my cheeks. The office staff exchanged uneasy glances as I forced myself to smile and leave. Still, I could hear their whispers. “What’s going on? How can the CEO’s girlfriend lose to the other woman?” “Shh, don’t talk nonsense. I went to school with the CEO. That woman in his office is his ex. They used to be inseparable—a love story for the ages.” “Really? So, who will he end up with?” “No idea, but the girlfriend sure is pitiful.” Yeah, pitiful. I laughed bitterly to myself and left Chris’s office.

The sunlight was blinding, so I shielded my eyes with my hand. “Hey, would you like to check this out?” Lowering my hand, I saw a mascot—a large, clumsy teddy bear—approaching me. It looked a little ridiculous. I took the flyer from him. It was for a nearby café. “Sure, I’ll check it out. Thanks.” My mind drifted back to the days I spent handing out flyers with Chris. The streets back then were scorching—like a furnace. I had suffered through those days with him. I smiled at the mascot and was about to leave when his cheerful voice called out again. “Hey, you’ve got a beautiful smile.” I froze, that same sentence ringing in my ears. Anna, you look so beautiful when you smile. “Really?” I asked without thinking. The rough fabric of the mascot costume brushed my cheek as the teddy bear patted me gently. “If you don’t cry, it’s even better.” “Don’t cry, okay?” I touched my face, feeling the wetness on my fingers. Was I crying again? I shouldn’t be. After a moment, I let a smile break across my face. I hugged the mascot, and he didn’t pull away. “Thank you.” I must be going crazy. I sat there, watching as he handed out flyers, chatting up passersby. He told me I should head home. I shook my head and refused. He didn’t mind. Instead, he shuffled around in his clumsy mascot suit, blocking the sun for me. So this is what it feels like to have someone care for you. As the sun set, he removed the suit and sat next to me. A bottle of water sat beside him—something he had run out to buy for me. The weather had been too hot, and his hair stuck damply to his forehead. I handed him a tissue. He took it, wiping the sweat from his face before pushing his hair back. So bright, so good-looking. So different from Chris’s steady appearance. I stared at him absentmindedly until he waved his hand in front of my face, laughing. “Hey, did I stun you with how good I look?” His playful antics made me laugh. I pushed his hand away and stood up. “Stop being so full of yourself.” “I’m heading home. You should go home early too.” The ride-share honked impatiently. I waved goodbye and got in the car. Through the window, I watched as he stood there, holding the mascot suit in his arms, smiling and waving back at me, the sunset behind him. I never told him that his smile was just as beautiful. Years ago, I was the one wearing the mascot suit, shielding Chris from the heat. The inside had been suffocating, like an oven. Chris’s impatient tone and spoiled attitude still lingered vividly in my memory. What was I thinking back then? I was thinking that I wished someone would shield me from the sun. Why am I thinking about Chris again? I touched my eyes once more—dry this time. No more tears. Back home, the emptiness remained. Somehow, Wendy Summers had added me on WeChat. I accepted, but she didn’t message me. I knew what she was planning. Sure enough, she posted a playful caption and a photo on her feed. “Dinner with my favorite person! Even the lemonade tastes sweet!” The picture showed two glasses of lemonade and a lavish meal. And, of course, a man’s hand—it could only be Chris. Smart as ever, he had even taken off the watch I gave him. Once again, I opened my diary and wrote. “Today, Chris forgot I would bring him lunch. He ate with another girl. That girl even fed him the carrots he doesn’t like. I was furious and slapped her. Chris sided with her and made me apologize. I’m so sad.” After that day, Chris rarely came home. I couldn’t sleep, and even the sleeping pills stopped working. Sometimes, I would fall asleep, only to wake up soon after in the darkness of my dreams. My hair began to fall out in clumps, and my weight dropped steadily. Even though I had planned everything, including my final departure, I still couldn’t find peace. Sometimes, looking at my pale reflection in the mirror, I’d think back to the days before Chris, when I was just as radiant and lively as Wendy. I couldn’t stop myself from breaking down into sobs. I had to speed up the plan—I didn’t know how much longer I could endure.

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Laura, once seemingly benign, revealed her true nature in the most tragic way. The day she accidentally dropped my three-month-old son from the building marked the beginning of my descent into despair. Jason, ever placid, dismissed it as a mere accident. Pregnant with our second child, I hesitated when Laura offered to accompany me for my prenatal check-ups. Her seemingly kind gesture masked a deep-seated disdain, a warning I failed to heed. The day of the traffic accident was a cruel twist of fate. I vividly remember the world spinning as I felt my life—and my unborn child’s—slip away. In those final moments, I floated above the chaos and heard Laura’s cruel taunt: “Bitch, you’re good for nothing by being alive!” The reality that followed was devastating. Jason, using the inheritance meant for my family, remarried, leaving me with the gut-wrenching realization that my son’s death had been a deliberate act of murder orchestrated by Laura. As my spirit grappled with this truth, I was abruptly pulled back through a disorienting whirlpool of time. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself at the very moment Laura had offered to accompany me for my prenatal check-up. —— “Selina, are you ready to go? Jefferson scheduled an early appointment with the best gynecologist. We can’t be late!” Laura’s voice crackled with anxious urgency as she paced back and forth at the door, her eyes darting with a barely concealed impatience. I looked down at my slightly bulging belly, a tangible reminder of the life growing inside me. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over me, and I burst into tears. “My baby is still there. Could it be a dream?” I choked on my sobs, my mind reeling with the nightmare of my daughter’s fall from the building, her tiny body reduced to a horrifying mess. Laura’s sudden offer to take me to a private hospital where Jefferson worked, and her insistence on making an appointment with the best gynecologist, struck me as eerily convenient. Her enthusiasm seemed almost too polished, too rehearsed. A part of me felt uneasy, sensing an undercurrent of deception beneath her veneer of concern. The memory of Laura’s cruel taunt, “Bitch, you’re good for nothing by being alive!” echoed in my mind, a chilling reminder of the treachery I had uncovered. The stillbirth of my first child had cast a shadow over my heart, leaving me perpetually uneasy. The wound never fully healed, a constant ache beneath the surface. As my second pregnancy progressed, a faint glimmer of hope began to emerge. Jason had explained that Laura, devastated by the tragic accident, had suffered a severe emotional and physical breakdown when she lost consciousness while holding our son. Her injuries and the weight of her grief had kept her bedridden for a long, arduous recovery. Despite her own suffering, Laura’s apparent joy at the news of my second pregnancy seemed boundless. Her enthusiasm was almost unsettling in its intensity. She threw herself into finding the best possible care for me, an effort that grew more fervent with each passing day. Her attempts to secure a top-notch gynecologist were relentless. She seemed almost obsessed with ensuring that every detail of my prenatal care was perfect. When she finally managed to secure an appointment with the best gynecologist in town, her elation was palpable. Jason’s words echoed with a bitter irony that cut through my grief. “Laura’s trying to make up for her previous mistakes,” he had said, as though that were supposed to somehow absolve the pain she had caused. The death of our son had shattered me in ways I could scarcely articulate. It was an unbearable ache, a constant, throbbing void where joy once lived. Yet, even in my profound sorrow, I couldn’t forsake the tiny life growing within me, nestled deep in my belly. waited in the sterile, unfeeling lobby, each tick of the clock magnifying my anxiety. A nagging sense of unease began to prick at my consciousness, and I glanced around, my gaze falling upon Laura. She was standing just outside, her posture tense, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. She seemed engrossed in something on the screen, her expression a mix of concentration and secrecy. Before I could ponder it further, a sudden, jarring noise shattered the relative calm. A car skidded into view, its tires screeching against the pavement. My heart lurched as I saw it careening toward our parked car with an alarming speed. The impact was deafening—metal crumpling, glass shattering, and the force of the collision rippling through the air like a shockwave. I felt a violent jolt, my body thrown forward as if caught in a tempest. My head struck the edge of the car’s interior with a brutal force, the pain exploding in a blinding, searing burst. Everything seemed to spiral out of control; the world spun with dizzying speed as the driver of the offending vehicle tried to regain control, his car veering wildly. The chaotic scene unfolded in slow motion, each moment dragging out with agonizing clarity. The next thing I knew, darkness consumed me. My body went limp, and the cacophony of the accident faded into an eerie, hollow silence. I was floating, adrift in a sea of unconsciousness, the pain and fear dissolving into a disorienting abyss. In the brief moments of clarity I had before losing consciousness, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Laura’s horrified face she remained rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and unblinking, her breathing shallow and erratic. The gravity of the moment seemed to weigh heavily upon her, causing her to fumble with her phone. It took an eternity for her to dial the emergency number, her fingers trembling uncontrollably. Medical staff arrived with swift efficiency, their faces etched with a blend of determination and grim resignation. They worked feverishly, their hands moving with practiced precision, but there was an air of helplessness that clung to them, a silent acknowledgment of the severity of my condition. From my elevated vantage point, I watched with a sense of growing dread as they wheeled me into the emergency room. The cold, harsh lights of the hospital starkly illuminated the scene, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out like fingers of fate. I could see the intense focus in their eyes, the urgent whispers exchanged, the desperate measures taken. But despite their best efforts, a cold, heavy certainty began to seep into my consciousness. I felt an overwhelming realization that my chances of survival were slipping away, the sense of finality pressing down like a suffocating weight. The darkness of unconsciousness loomed closer, and the faint echoes of my own fears became a mournful soundtrack to the desperate flurry of activity around me. Yet, even as my grip on reality began to wane, one disquieting detail remained clear in my mind: Laura’s reaction. Amid the urgency of the situation, I noticed something profoundly unsettling. She hadn’t called the police. She had only reached out to emergency services, and her behavior seemed inexplicably detached. It was as if something was profoundly wrong, a sense of disquiet that gnawed at the edges of my awareness. As the medical staff worked on me, I could see their heads shaking in somber resignation, their attempts becoming more futile with each passing moment. The knowledge that I might not be saved settled heavily upon me, the finality of it all casting a dark pall over my fading consciousness. The eerie silence of the operating room seemed to grow louder as the room became increasingly distant. Laura’s strange, almost mechanical presence at the periphery of the scene remained a haunting, unanswered question. And as the darkness enveloped me, I was left with a final, chilling thought: why had she not called for the police? Jason arrived, his face etched with panic and desperation. He burst into the room, his eyes wide and searching, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. But even as he approached, the gravity of the situation was evident. The doctors’ solemn expressions and the somber tone of their voices conveyed what the reality was too painfully clear to deny. When the doctor finally spoke those devastating words—”We did everything we could, but I’m afraid we’ve lost her”—the impact was palpable. Jason’s body seemed to convulse with the force of his grief, a shudder that wracked him twice before he collapsed onto the cold, sterile floor. He sank down as though the weight of the world had suddenly become too much to bear. His cries, raw and wrenching, filled the room, a primal expression of pain that cut through the oppressive silence. Laura, who had been sobbing beside me, now buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with the force of her anguish, her voice breaking as she uttered words of regret and self-reproach. “It’s all my fault,” she choked out between gasping sobs. “I didn’t take good care of Selina… of the baby… If only I had been more vigilant, more careful…” The sound of her anguish was haunting, a stark contrast to the clinical coldness of the emergency room. Her voice wavered with the weight of guilt and sorrow, each word a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the harshness of fate. Jason’s despair was almost palpable, his cries an anguished plea to the heavens as he lamented the loss. “If possible,” he sobbed, his voice breaking with the strain, “I would rather it had been me. I would trade my life for hers… for the baby. I would give anything to undo this.” Around us, the murmurs of the other patients in the waiting area were tinged with sorrow and sympathy. They whispered among themselves, their voices heavy with lament. They spoke of how much Jason and Laura had cared for me, how deeply their grief spoke to the love and commitment they had shown. Jefferson entered the room, his face etched with the rawness of grief, his eyes red and puffy from hours of crying. He held something tightly in his hand, a piece of paper that seemed almost to pulse with the gravity of the situation. The room, already heavy with the weight of collective sorrow, felt even more oppressive as he approached Jason. “Jason,” Jefferson’s voice was thick with emotion, barely holding back the tremor that threatened to break free. He extended the insurance policy toward Jason, his hand shaking slightly. “This is the insurance policy… the one that Selina bought before she… before she passed away. You’re the beneficiary. I’m… I’m giving it to you now.” Jason, still slumped on the floor, looked up through his tears, the dazed expression on his face reflecting the shock and disbelief that had consumed him. He took the document from Jefferson’s trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the cold, impersonal paper that now felt like a cruel reminder of what had been lost. The harsh reality of Jefferson’s words cut through the chaos. “Once a person dies, they can’t come back to life,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper of finality. During my pregnancy with our second child, the weight of impending responsibility seemed to press down on me with an almost unbearable intensity. The loss of our first son was a wound that would never fully heal, and the prospect of bringing another life into the world was both a beacon of hope and a source of profound anxiety. It was in this fragile state of mind that Jefferson’s insistence on a personal accident insurance policy found its way into our lives. Jefferson had approached me with a sense of urgency and conviction that was difficult to ignore. “It’s not just about you,” he had said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of gravity. “If something were to happen, this policy could provide a safety net for the baby, for the future.” His words, though unsettling, made a kind of sense in the context of my fears. I was convinced by his reasoning, and amidst the whirlwind of emotions and preparations for the new arrival, I signed the document. “Why?” Jason’s voice, raw and anguished, broke through the murmur of the room. “Why did it have to be this way? Why does it feel like everything we did to protect ourselves has only made the pain worse?” The child had not been born yet, so the beneficiary was Jason. Surrounding him were the medical professionals, their expressions a mix of professional detachment and deep empathy. The families of other patients, drawn by the commotion, stood at a respectful distance, their faces reflecting a shared sense of compassion and unease. He carefully unfolded the insurance policy, his movements deliberate and almost reverent. His face, though streaked with tears, bore a faint, enigmatic smile—a smile that seemed almost out of place in the context of his grief. Jason, engulfed in his own profound grief, sought to manage the immediate aftermath with a sense of hurried finality. With Jefferson’s assistance—a relationship steeped in familial ties and the practicalities of dealing with such a sudden and devastating loss—plans were swiftly put into motion. They want to cremate me as soon as possilbe. Laura’s voice cut through with a note of anguished concern. “There’s a baby in her belly,” she said, her words trembling with a mixture of fear and superstition. “It wouldn’t be right to cremate them together. It’s not auspicious.” For a fleeting moment, I had clung to the hope that Jason would honor both me and the unborn child, that he would find a way to protect our last vestige of hope. But hope, in the face of such overwhelming grief, often fades into a cruel and unforgiving reality. With a face etched in a grim resolve, Jason nodded to Jefferson, a decision made in the depths of his pain. Jefferson, who had been a steady presence amidst the chaos, now stepped forward with an almost eerie calmness. His face was set in a determined expression, reflecting the grim task ahead. The room seemed to hold its breath as Jefferson began the procedure. The clinical sounds of the medical staff preparing, the rustle of sterile sheets, and the muted beeping of monitors created a jarring contrast to the emotional storm swirling around them. Each sound, each movement, felt like a stark reminder of the painful reality that was unfolding. The extraction of the baby from my body was a scene of heart-wrenching cruelty. The tiny, delicate form was removed with clinical precision, the procedure carried out with a detachment that seemed almost barbaric in its coldness. The baby, so small and fragile, was placed into a small, stark container—a vessel that seemed to absorb all the warmth and hope that had once surrounded it. Jefferson, with a methodical detachment, carried the container toward a trash can. The sight was unbearable. The small, lifeless body of the baby, once a symbol of new beginnings, was now a discarded object, reduced to the most impersonal of receptacles. The trash can loomed large, a cruel and final destination for what had been a beacon of hope and potential. The clang of the container as it was lowered into the trash can was a harsh, final note that seemed to reverberate through the room. The sound was jarring, a stark and unforgiving punctuation to the devastating scene. It echoed with a sense of finality that cut through the air like a blade, underscoring the brutal reality of what had just transpired. Jason stood by, his face contorted with an anguish that words could scarcely capture. His eyes, once filled with tears, now stared blankly at the trash can, as if trying to reconcile the incongruity of the act with the depth of his grief. The scene was a brutal testament to the harsh decisions made in the depths of sorrow, a painful reminder of the fragile line between hope and despair. Laura’s cries, raw and desperate, filled the room with a sorrow that seemed almost palpable. Her sobs were a haunting echo of the pain and loss that had become a suffocating presence. The onlookers, their faces etched with shock and profound sadness, stood silent witness to the tragic unfolding, their eyes reflecting a mixture of empathy and horror. Once the last remnants of my physical presence had been reduced to ashes, Jason’s attention shifted to the next urgent matter at hand—the insurance compensation. In the quiet of the night, he hurried to the insurance company, driven by a determination to claim what was due. His face, a mask of weariness and despair, held an anxious hope as he presented the necessary documents. The waiting room of the insurance office was a place of clinical efficiency, but for Jason, it was charged with a personal intensity. The minutes dragged as he awaited the outcome, each tick of the clock a reminder of the gravity of his actions. When the final number was revealed, it was as though a weight had been lifted, but not in the way one might hope for. Jason’s eyes widened as he saw the amount of the compensation—a substantial sum that promised to alleviate the financial burden but also held a peculiar allure of relief and even elation. His face, etched with the pain of recent loss, suddenly brightened with an almost unsettling smile. It was a smile that seemed to juxtapose the grief he had so recently endured, a stark contrast to the tragic events that had led to this moment. The amount was substantial, and the promise of financial stability seemed to offer a bittersweet solace. That night, as the moon cast its cold light across the city, Jason and Laura returned home, their minds occupied by the practicalities of their new reality. Little did they know that the night would bring more than just the shadows of their sorrow. Laura, who had been quieter than usual throughout the day, suddenly found her energy renewed. Her eyes sparkled with a feverish intensity as she turned to Jason, her face lighting up with a fervor that seemed almost out of place given the day’s events. The promise of the insurance payout had injected a jolt of vitality into her demeanor. “Did you get the money?” Laura’s voice was filled with an eagerness that bordered on manic. She clutched at Jason’s arm, her grip tight with anticipation. “Thanks to Jefferson this time. She made Selina, that bitch, buy insurance before she died. It’s not in vain that I served her so well with good food and drinks before.” Her words tumbled out in a rapid, almost breathless torrent, her excitement barely contained. The house, which had been a place of sorrow and mourning, now felt as though it was pulsating with a new, unsettling energy. Laura’s face, flushed with a mix of triumph and greed, was a stark contrast to the mournful expression she had worn earlier. As Laura’s gaze fell on the amount of compensation Jason had received, her expression transformed dramatically. “I didn’t expect this money-consuming thing to be so valuable,” she began, her tone a mix of incredulity and self-reproach. Her words spilled out with a fervent intensity, as if she were trying to process the magnitude of the situation aloud. “If I had known it earlier, I wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of pretending to have a heart attack at the baby’s full moon banquet and then dropping it to smash her. The first time she didn’t die, she was so lucky.The child was dead. It’s not worth it!” “By the way,” she began, her voice taking on a cold, commanding tone, “since Selina’s dead, did her dowry and the house she bought before your marriage all belong to you now?” “You should quickly follow up on this,” Laura urged, her voice now tinged with an icy determination. “Liquidate whatever can be liquidated. Every asset, every last bit of property that belonged to her. Make it all yours.” Listening to their conversation, I felt a chill all over my body. I couldn’t stop trembling. “It turns out that Laura was faking a heart attack before,” “She staged the entire thing to get my fortune. She pretended to have a heart attack so she could drop my son, aiming to smash me as I was passing by downstairs. She failed in that, but the result was even more devastating. My son died on the spot.” Jason said it was just an accident. It turned out that all of this was Laura’s conspiracy. I yearned to rend them asunder, to tear their world into a thousand shreds and watch their ruin unfold. Yet, as I reached for this desperate retribution, my own essence felt insubstantial, like mist slipping through grasping fingers. My soul, once a beacon of fierce determination, now felt like an ethereal wisp—powerless and hollow, unable to manifest the wrath that roared within me. In that moment of bitter impotence, I was left only with the haunting echo of my own impotent rage, a specter of vengeance unable to shape reality. Jason’s face changed. “Mom, Selina had an accident at Jefferson’s hospital. Jefferson orchestrated the car crash. When you’re out, make sure to act really upset. Otherwise, someone might leak this online, and if the truth gets out, we’ll be hammered by everyone on the internet.” Laura quickly lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. But what about Jefferson? Did you take care of him?” Jason smirked. “Mom, relax. Jefferson’s boss is an old buddy of our boss. Jefferson donated Selina’s kidney to my boss’s daughter. With that connection, they’ll help us keep this under wraps.” “And I heard they’re going to promote Jefferson and give his boss a luxury car because of it.” … Listening to Jason and Laura plot their future, my rage boiled over. I wanted to tear them apart and see if their hearts were as rotten as their souls. As I flailed my arms in frustration, a gust of wind swept through, knocking a vase off the table and shattering it on the floor. The room fell into a tense silence. Jason went pale, and Laura dropped to her knees. “Selina, if you’re looking to blame someone, blame yourself,” Laura spat. “If I hadn’t married into the Black family, none of us would have faced so many disasters, and we wouldn’t be staring down death.” I tried to lunge at them, to slap the truth into their faces. But instead, my body began to fade, becoming translucent. “Am I disappearing?” But no, I wasn’t disappearing. I was being reborn. I found myself back on the day Laura was supposed to take me to Jefferson’s hospital for my prenatal check-ups.

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I have severe bipolar disorder and need to take medication constantly to keep it under control. On the bus ride home, I encountered a creepy old man who kept rubbing his crotch against my backside. I hadn’t taken my medication for two days and was afraid I might lose control if provoked, so I used my backpack as a barrier between us. Seeing he couldn’t take advantage anymore, he started shouting loudly that I was being inconsiderate by using my backpack to take up his seat space. He even grabbed my backpack and threw it far away. But that backpack contained my medication – my sedatives! He had no idea he’d just thrown away his own lifeline. 0I have severe bipolar disorder – a mental illness that causes extreme mood swings between depression and mania. I’ve been taking medication to control it, but I can’t stop the meds. I had just picked up my prescription from the hospital today. That doctor is so annoying – every time he talks, I want to sew his mouth shut so he can never speak again. I hadn’t taken my medication for two days. Of course, I didn’t take it today either. I hate the hospital and didn’t want to stay there a minute longer than necessary. The noise on the bus was grating on my nerves. The irritation inside me felt like a wild beast, ready to explode at any moment. Just then, a balding man got on and sat next to me, constantly pressing against me. This guy was truly ugly and fat. His big round face was rougher than a shoe sole. I wanted to take a knife and slice off the fat from his face to feed to dogs! How could someone be so shameless? He was already taking up two seats with his size, yet he kept squeezing closer to me. I really wanted to slap him with a shoe. Damn it, at his age, how could he be so shameless? He reeked of sweat. The people nearby had already moved far away when he first got on. When he squeezed over again, I finally couldn’t hold back: “Can you move over? You’re crushing me!” You old bastard, if the hospital wasn’t currently evaluating my mental state, I would’ve thrown you out the window already. I shoved my backpack roughly between us and rolled my eyes. What a piece of trash, truly more shameless with age! “Young lady, this is a public space, not your home. You can’t use your backpack to take up space. I’ll sit however I want, it’s none of your business,” he said, giving me a challenging side-eye. He shook his smelly bare feet. The people around were already fed up with him. Seeing the conflict arise, they immediately called over the bus attendant. The attendant held his breath against the sour stench and came over to remind him to be considerate of others. “I paid for my ticket. I didn’t pay for you to boss me around,” the old man said arrogantly. “Young people these days have no respect for their elders,” he added. “Sir, this is a public space. Your behavior is disturbing other passengers,” the attendant said helplessly. “I must also warn you, it’s best not to provoke this young lady,” the attendant cautioned him. “I’ll do what I want! What are you going to do about it?” he retorted, going back to shaking his leg and picking his nose. Suddenly he flicked a big booger from his nose towards the attendant. Although it didn’t hit the attendant, it was disgusting enough. The attendant wrinkled his brow tightly and covered his mouth, looking like he might throw up at any moment. “What are you looking at? I’ll really throw it on you next time!” the old man said brazenly. The attendant was so upset he was nearly in tears. He covered his mouth and fled. 0

Several nearby passengers couldn’t stand it anymore and started criticizing him: “This is a public space, you have no manners at all.” “At your age, bullying two young girls, have you no shame?” “We all paid for tickets. I’ve never seen someone like this before. Look, no one dares sit next to you.” “Exactly, acting like this is your own home.” The old man sneered, “Mind your own business!” “You only know how to bully an old man like me. This girl is taking up my seat with her bag, why don’t you say something about that?” he said. “It’s just a stupid bag. I’ll get rid of it for you,” he said as he grabbed my backpack and threw it far away. “What a piece of junk, trying to take up my seat.” The medication in my bag spilled out everywhere as it flew through the air. Damn it, my meds! My sedatives! This guy is really asking for it. “Oh, so many pills! Young lady, taking all this medication at your age – you didn’t just have an abortion, did you?” the old man said with a look of disdain. My anger had reached its boiling point, like a balloon about to burst. An internal struggle raged in my mind. One voice said, “Go for it! Kick him! He’s ugly and shameless.” I felt like I was about to lose control. But another voice warned, “No, no, don’t cause trouble. You won’t pass the hospital evaluation and will end up in the psych ward. Don’t be impulsive, impulsiveness is the devil.” Remembering my past experiences in the psychiatric hospital sent a chill down my spine. I shoved the old man aside and picked up my sedatives from the ground, about to open the bottle and take some. But the old man snatched the pill bottle from my hand. “Let me teach you a lesson on behalf of your parents. Young lady, you need to take better care of yourself and not do shameful things.” He was about to throw my pill bottle out the window. “You’d better look carefully at what kind of medication it is and what it’s for before you throw it. You might regret it,” I warned. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ve seen plenty of girls like you. What else could these pills be but abortion pills? I’m going to throw them out and there’s nothing you can do about it!” he said. He opened the bottle right in front of me and dumped the pills out the window. “Go ahead and try to get them back now, little girl. You’re no match for me,” he said smugly, shaking the empty bottle. My mind exploded. To hell with “impulsiveness is the devil.” You can’t blame me for this. I grabbed a frying pan from under a lady’s feet nearby and started smacking his face with it repeatedly. I’d been wanting to do this for a while. I couldn’t stand looking at his face any longer. Before he could react, I kept hitting him all over with the frying pan. For a moment, the only sounds on the bus were the clanging of the pan and the old man’s howls of pain. The other passengers came to their senses after a couple shouts but then just continued watching the show. Not a single person tried to stop me. The old man had been too despicable earlier. Even the bus attendant pretended he couldn’t squeeze through the crowd, watching anxiously from the back. The old man cried out in pain, bawling like a child despite his age. Snot and tears were everywhere – disgusting. After venting my anger, I finally felt less pent up. I put down the frying pan and started picking up the remaining pills on the floor to put back in my bag. When I picked up the empty bottle, the old man grabbed the frying pan from the ground and was about to hit me with it. I dodged it swiftly, staring at him coldly like I was looking at a dead man. He still dares to provoke me? He must have a death wish. He said in a low voice, “Think you’re tough, little girl? Come on then!” Before he could finish gloating, with a loud thud, his whole body crashed heavily to the ground like a rag doll. The frying pan in his hand fell and hit him square on the nose. A piercing shriek echoed through the bus. I shoved the empty pill bottle in his face. “Do you know what this is? It’s your lifeline.” I took out another bottle of pills from my bag and threw it at him. “Go ahead, throw it out again.” The old man clutched the pills, not daring to move an inch. “What’s wrong? Want me to open it for you?” I grabbed another bottle, opened it, and forcefully threw it at him, shouting, “Throw it! Throw it all out! Don’t leave a single pill! I’m sick of taking this damn medication anyway!” He shook his head frantically. “Not going to throw them? Then you can just swallow them all yourself.” He covered his mouth and shook his head vigorously. I picked up the pills that had fallen on the floor one by one. As I picked them up, I said, “This one is taken on an empty stomach in the morning. So bitter.” I picked up another: “This one is taken before bed at noon. Doesn’t taste good either.” I continued picking them up: “This is taken before dinner. Tsk, takes away my appetite for the meal.” I kept picking up pills as I spoke, until I had a small handful. I stood up and walked over to the old man, grabbed his chin, and shoved all the pills in my hand into his mouth. The old man’s face turned bright red, his eyes bulging. He kept pounding on his chest. “Tasty? Are they tasty?” I asked. The old man nodded frantically, no longer caring about the bitterness in his mouth. “Since you like them so much, have some more.” I was about to pick up more pills from the ground. “No more, no more. I’ll never do it again,” he pleaded, looking at me in terror. The fat on his face was contorted – he was clearly scared out of his wits. He got lucky. Although I hadn’t taken my meds in two days, I had just had a counseling session at the hospital. The doctor’s words were still echoing in my mind. I have to admit, even though the doctor was a bit long-winded, his words were effective. If this had happened on a normal day when I hadn’t taken my meds for two days, the old man might not have even been able to beg for mercy. 0

The bus attendant was afraid the situation would escalate further, so he and a few passengers restrained me. Seeing that I was held back, the old man pointed at me and shouted, “Just you wait! I’m going to sue you for assault. I’ll make sure you go to jail!” “Want to bet I’ll cripple your hand?” I walked up to him step by step and grabbed the finger he was pointing at me with. The old man howled in pain, glaring at the people around him. “Why aren’t you stopping her? She’s completely insane!” I kicked him hard in the knee. The old man cried out and immediately fell to his knees. “I hate it when people call me crazy,” I said. This time the old man didn’t dare make any more moves. I saw him take out his phone and make a call, muttering something I couldn’t hear. “Oh, calling for backup? What, did you lose the fight so now you’re calling mommy?” I taunted. I stepped forward and snatched his phone, throwing it to the ground. “You like throwing things, don’t you? Let me help you!” I said. I went up and slapped him hard across the face twice. I shoved the empty pill bottle in his face again. “Look carefully. What kind of medication is this? This is your lifeline, not mine.” I slapped him again. The old man was so angry he was trembling all over, no longer caring about being scared. “You…you just wait. You’ll see how my son deals with you when we get to the stop. I’ll make you kneel and call me grandpa!” Oh, so we’re almost at the stop and he’s got backup coming. Feeling tough now, are we? “Alright, alright. You want to fight? Bring it on! I haven’t thrown down in a long time. I’ll use you to warm up first!” Without waiting for the old man’s reaction, I went up and kicked him. You dare glare at me? That deserves a hit. Gritting your teeth like you want to eat me? That deserves a hit. Not keeping your hands to yourself? That deserves a hit. Being this ugly and daring to go out in public? That deserves a hit. And so I kept hitting him the whole way, smacking him whenever I felt like it. Suddenly the old man stood up and shouted loudly, “Over here! I’m over here!” Looks like we’ve reached the stop. 0Among the crowd, I immediately spotted the person the old man was calling for. How should I put it – his obesity was exactly like the old man’s. Like father, like son. He shoved his way roughly through the passengers in the aisle, holding a cigarette between his fingers. He pointed at me and said, “So you’re the one who beat up my dad

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