The day my parents divorced, the rain wouldn’t stop.

Two agreements sat on the table. One meant staying in the old Eastwood District with my gambling-addicted father, Alexander Clark, drowning in debt. The other meant leaving for Silverstrand Coast with my mother, Charlotte Hayes, who was remarrying into wealth.

In my last life, my younger brother, Mathias Clark, cried and clung to Mom while I quietly packed my things and chose to stay with Dad.

Later, he quit gambling and struck it rich during a redevelopment boom. He poured everything into raising me right. Meanwhile, Mathias was trapped in his stepfather’s house—isolated, controlled, never allowed outside—until depression took his life.

But this time, everything changed.

Mathias snatched the cigarette from Dad’s hand and hugged him tightly, refusing to let go.

"Tyler, I feel bad for Dad. You go enjoy the good life over there. I’ll stay and take care of him for you."

Dad froze for a moment, then smiled with relief and patted his shoulder.

I said nothing. I simply picked up the train ticket to the coast.

What he didn’t know was that…

In my last life, the reason Dad was able to quit gambling was because I had a brain tumor. I worked myself to the brink of coughing up blood just to repay his debts.

I traded my life… for his redemption.

"Then, I’m leaving." I hoisted up my woven sack.

"Go on, get lost. Go find that gold-digging mother of yours." Dad waved his hand dismissively, like he was shooing away a fly.

Mathias Clark hid behind him, pulling faces at me. His expression was smug, almost triumphant. "Don’t come crawling back later, begging me for money, Ty."

Without saying a word, I smiled and turned to walk into the rain. I hunched my shoulders slightly. The cold seeped in so deep it felt like it was coming from inside my bones.

Honestly, it didn’t matter where I went. I just wanted somewhere quiet, somewhere I could endure whatever time I had left.

No more listening to debt collectors pounding on the door for a gambling addict. No more breathing in that nauseating stench of cheap cigarettes.

Mom’s black Mercedes was parked at the mouth of Maple Alley. The window rolled down, revealing her well-maintained face. She frowned as she looked at me, drenched from head to toe, a trace of disgust flickering in her eyes.

"What happened to you? Get in already. Don’t dirty the car."

I opened the back door and was about to get in.

"Put that bag in the trunk." She pointed at the woven sack in my hand. "It’s filthy. Who knows what kind of bacteria are on it?"

I paused for a moment, but in the end, I still obeyed. I closed the door, walked to the back, and placed the bag in the trunk.

When I got in again, I curled into the corner, careful not to touch the leather seats. The heat in the car was turned up high, but I still felt cold.

"Tyler, when we get there, behave yourself." Mom drove while glancing at me through the rearview mirror. "Jonathan doesn’t like noise. Stay in your room when you have nothing to do.

"Don’t smack your lips when you eat. Don’t drag your feet when you walk. And don’t mention your dad. It’s bad luck."

I watched the rain blur past the window and nodded. "Got it."

Something in my head stabbed again. My vision went dark for a split second. I clenched my teeth and forced myself through the wave of dizziness.

"What’s wrong?" Mom asked, her tone edged with impatience.

"Nothing. Motion sickness."

"Dramatic." She let out a cold snort. "Just like your father. A grown man who can’t handle a little discomfort."

I closed my eyes and swallowed the metallic taste rising in my throat. In my next life, I won’t come back.

The drive lasted five hours. By the time we reached Crestview Heights halfway up the mountain, night had completely fallen. The place was brightly lit, yet eerily silent.

"We’re here." Mom parked the car, touched up her lipstick, and took a deep breath. She was adjusting herself from the sharp, cutting woman she was with me into a gentle, attentive wife.

"Get out. And remember to call him 'Uncle'."

I picked up my woven sack and followed behind her.

A man sat on the living room sofa. A blanket covered his legs, and he held a book in his hands. Hearing us enter, he looked up.

This was my stepfather, Jonathan Hayes.

He was the one who drove Mathias to his death in my last life.

"You’re back?" His voice was flat, completely unreadable.

"Jonathan, this is Tyler." Mom gave me a small push, her face instantly bright with a practiced smile. "Tyler, say hello to your Uncle Jonathan."

I stepped forward and gave a slight bow. "Hello, Uncle Jonathan."

Jonathan turned a page in his book as if he hadn’t heard me. A few seconds later, he let out a quiet hum through his nose.

"Mm."

His gaze flicked briefly to my wet shoes. His brow creased ever so slightly. "The carpet was just replaced."

He lowered his head again, returning to his book. "The first room on the left upstairs is the guest room. It’s been cleaned out."

"Thank you, Uncle Jonathan," I said.

Mom visibly relaxed and pulled me toward the stairs.

"See? Your Uncle Jonathan is a good man." She lowered her voice. "As long as you don’t upset him, you’ll be able to stay in this house."

The room was large and empty.

"Mom." I stopped her as she was about to leave.

"What now?"

"I want to switch rooms."

Her expression changed instantly. "Tyler Clark, you just got here, and you’re already being picky? What’s wrong with this room? It’s a hundred times better than the dump your father lives in. Don’t be ungrateful."

I looked at her calmly as she vented, only speaking after she finished.

"There’s nothing wrong with it. It just faces north. It’s too cold. I want a south-facing room. It doesn’t matter if it’s smaller."

I really was cold. The brain tumor had thrown off my body’s ability to regulate temperature. It felt like I was trapped in a freezer all the time. Only sunlight gave me even a hint of warmth.

"Cold? Then turn on the A/C." Mom looked at me like I was being unreasonable. "The south-facing room is your Uncle Jonathan’s study. The other one is a storage room."

"Then I’ll take the storage room."

Her eyes widened. "Are you insane? You’re turning down a perfectly good guest room to live in a storage closet? Are you trying to make your Uncle Jonathan think I’m abusing you?"

Her voice turned sharp and shrill.

I pressed my fingers against my throbbing temple. It was too loud.

"I’m just afraid of the cold," I repeated.

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. Jonathan stood there at some point, holding a glass of water, his expression dark.

"What’s all the noise about?"

Mom immediately switched her demeanor, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s nothing, Jonathan. Tyler’s being difficult, complaining about the room. I’ll discipline him right away."

Jonathan looked at me.

I met his gaze. His complexion was pale, his lips nearly colorless. He looked like someone already halfway to death.

"Where do you want to stay?" he asked.

"The south-facing one." I pointed toward the end of the hallway.

"That’s where the old furniture is."

"That’s fine. As long as there’s sunlight."

He fell silent for a moment. "Suit yourself. Just don’t shout in the hallway."

With that, he turned and left, completely uninterested in the dispute between mother and son.

Mom jabbed a finger against my forehead, frustrated. "Do whatever you want. Living in a storage room… What will people think of me?"

I ignored her. Carrying my woven sack, I walked to the end of the hallway and pushed open the door.

A wave of dust hit me in the face, but I saw the floor-to-ceiling window. When the sun rose tomorrow, this place would be warm. That was enough.

I made the bed and placed the photo album under my pillow. The diagnosis report was tucked inside. As long as I didn’t die, no one would bother digging through my things.

That night, I slept deeply.

No debt collectors in my dreams. Only endless, boundless darkness.

I settled into life in this house like a ghost.

Jonathan preferred silence. Even the house staff walked on tiptoes.

Every day, Mom tried new ways to please him. She made casseroles, gave him massages, and sat with him watching those dry financial news programs. In this house, she lived like a high-end housekeeper.

As for me, I barely left my room except to eat. I cleaned out the storage room until it was spotless. Even though it was still packed with old furniture, the sunlight there was perfect. I often dragged a chair to the window and sat there for hours, basking in the sun, like an old man waiting for the end.

Sometimes Jonathan would pass by my door. When he saw me sitting in the sunlight, he would pause for a moment, but he never said anything.

The look in his eyes was strange, like he was looking at a reflection of himself.

That afternoon at lunch, the table was quiet. The only sound was the faint clink of cutlery against plates.

My phone suddenly vibrated. In the silence, it sounded like an alarm.

Jonathan frowned.

Mom immediately set down her spoon and shot me a glare. "Who told you to bring your phone to the table? How rude. Hang up."

I took out my phone and glanced at the screen.

It was Mathias.

I declined the call.

Two seconds later, it rang again, and I declined it again.

The third time it buzzed, Jonathan set down his cutlery.

"Take it," he said flatly. "It’s giving me a headache."

I took the phone and stepped out onto the balcony. The moment I answered, Mathias’s voice exploded through the line.

"Tyler, are you doing this on purpose? You took the bankbook, didn’t you?"

I held the phone a little farther away. "What bankbook?"

"Dad said the one at home is missing. You must’ve stolen it. There’s $5,000 in there!"

I laughed. That $5,000 was what I earned last summer hauling bricks at a construction site.

"I earned that money," I said.

"If you earned it, it still belongs to the family." Mathias sounded completely justified. "Dad doesn’t even have money for cigarettes right now. He’s losing his temper at home. Transfer the money back now. Or I’ll tell Mom you stole it."

From the other end of the line came the sound of things smashing and Dad’s angry shouting.

"Ungrateful trash! Raising you was a waste. I should’ve strangled you when you were born."

Even across hundreds of miles, those words made it hard to breathe.

"I didn’t steal anything," I said calmly. "That was supposed to be my medical fund."

"Medical fund? What’s wrong with you?" Mathias let out a mocking laugh. "What are you acting so delicate for? Transfer the money now, or I’ll go to your school and make a scene. I’ll tell everyone you don’t care if your own father lives or dies."

I looked out over the garden. The flowers were in full bloom, red as blood.

"Mathias, you chose your path. You’ll live with it. Don’t bother me again." I hung up and blocked his number.

As I turned, I felt something warm under my nose.

I reached up. My hand came away covered in blood. I fumbled for tissues and pressed them against my nose, tilting my head back to stop the bleeding. The blood flowed fast, running down my throat and into my stomach, making me nauseous.

I rushed into the downstairs bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, I watched as the bright red blood stained half my face. I turned on the faucet and started washing frantically.

"What are you doing?"

A voice came from behind me.

I froze.

Through the mirror, I saw Jonathan standing in the doorway. He looked at my face, wet with water and streaked with blood, his gaze deep and unreadable.

I wiped my face hastily.

"Just a nosebleed," I said, keeping my head down. "Probably the heat."

Jonathan didn’t respond. He walked over and handed me a clean towel. "Wipe it."

I took it and pressed it to my nose. "Thank you, Uncle Jonathan."

His eyes lingered on the faint red stains still in the sink. "Does this happen often?"

"Sometimes," I lied. The nosebleeds had been getting more frequent lately.

Jonathan stared at me for a moment. "You should go to the hospital," he said.

"It’s fine. Just an old issue." I kept my head down, trying to move past him.

"Tyler." He stopped me. "In this house, you don’t have to live like you’re walking on eggshells. Your mother is your mother. You are you."

I paused and looked up at him. His expression was still cold, but there was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite understand.

"If you don’t feel well, say it. No one’s going to give you a medal for toughing it out."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the bathroom.

The towel in my hand still carried a faint scent of pine.

His scent.

And beneath it… something faintly resembling death.