Chapter 3
“It’s a pity about Serena; had high hopes for her. We could have started preparing for the wedding next month.”
“What a shame she died in a fire. I’ll find out later if anyone needs a ghost marriage; at least we might make some money from it.”
Hearing my parents‘ words made my heart sink.
Even after my death, they were planning a ghost marriage for me–this was my family.
Tomorrow was Jennifer’s birthday party. I watched her sleep soundly on her bed, sitting at her bedside, staring at her.
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I was no longer human; I had become a ghost.
Though I didn’t understand why I hadn’t dissipated, I could still learn from my predecessors how to frighten the killer into confessing.
Perhaps my powers weren’t strong enough; I couldn’t enter her dreams to play, so I could only watch her sleep and occasionally brush my fingers across her cheek.
Jennifer’s phone, placed on the bedside table, buzzed with a flurry of messages, but I could only catch a glimpse of one:
“Send money!”
Who did Jennifer need to send money to? With this question, I pondered her network of
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relationships.
In the morning, our mother came in to tuck her under the covers, worried she might catch a
chill.
“Ding ding ding-”
Jennifer’s phone rang. Our mother, seeing this, wanted to hang up but accidentally pressed the answer button instead.
“Didn’t you see my message? Don’t forget our collaboration!”
I heard only that line before my mother ended
the call.
The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place
- it.
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“What a scam call to disturb my daughter’s sweet dreams early in the morning.”
It didn’t sound like a scam call; it was likely a friend of Jennifer’s.
I memorized the number, hoping Jennifer would reach out to it first.
While our mother went to the kitchen to cook, I followed her, discovering I had never known she possessed such culinary skills.
For breakfast, she prepared an impressive variety of dishes, both Chinese and Western.
Since I was six, I had taken over the cooking, and later, when I started working and no one was around to look after Jennifer, she must
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have stepped in to help and hone her skills.
She showcased maternal love in every dish, yet why couldn’t she share even a little of that with me? Just a tiny bit would suffice.
When Jennifer woke up, she immediately stuck to our mother like glue.
Π
“Mom, everything you make is delicious.”
“I love your cooking the most.”
‘By the way, a nuisance call came in while you were asleep, but I hung up.”
The ordinary yet warm atmosphere of our family was enviable.
In moments like this, I couldn’t help but wonder
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if it was because I’m not good at sweet–talking that my parents to overlook me.
As a child, I used to stay with my mother, obediently helping her out. I still remember her pushing me away, saying, “Stop bothering me! Just seeing you annoys me.”
Unless what I did was related to my sister, I had no hope of receiving even a hint of her affection.
This was a lesson I had learned over many years.
I longed to escape this suffocating place, yet I found myself drawn back to Jennifer’s side as soon as I strayed even ten meters away.
