After that day, the atmosphere at home completely changed.

My family made me move into the storage room. My mother said it was because my sister was growing and needed more sunlight.

My mother no longer asked me what I wanted to eat. She would quietly set out the tableware, one set short, look at me, and then add it.

My father rarely spoke to me anymore. Sometimes, when he came back from outside, he would pause when he saw me sunbathing in the yard.

Then, he would turn around and go in through the back door.

My sister would occasionally stare at me from the storage room door, her gaze strange, as if she were observing a monster.

Before, I was the treasure they cherished for 18 years.

Now, I was the scapegoat for everything bad that happened in the family.

If the tap wasn't tightened, my father would instantly frown and chastise me, his tone no longer gentle like before, "Are you doing this on purpose? You're wasting water! Do you know how expensive the water bill is?! Stop wasting our money!"

"Dad, it wasn't me..."

"Don't call me Dad!" he shouted, then walked away.

When my sister failed an exam by one point, my parents said, "It's all your fault. You keep wandering around the house, affecting your sister's studies! We were supposed to have a peaceful life, but you ruined it all!"

When the chicken my mom cooked for dinner was a bit burnt, she slammed her fork down and said, "It's all your fault. Bad luck accumulates in the house because you didn't die. Now, even the pan is working against me!"

I was at a loss. Tears welling up in my eyes, I mumbled, "I thought I was going to die too."

Once, when I pressed the light switch, the light bulb flickered and then went out completely.

My mother completely erupted. "You're nothing but bad luck! Ever since you lived past 18, everything in the house has been breaking down! It's all your fault! 18 years! More than 6,000 days! Your father and I raised you, counting the days! We gave you the best of everything, and your sister got nothing. We were prepared to send you off. We rehearsed again and again... but you..."

She didn't finish, but I understood.

18 years. Their sacrifices, the days they carefully counted, had all become a joke.

They were unhappy not because I was still alive, but because the money they spent on me and the unfavorable treatment my sister received in those 18 years would only be justified if I died.

Now, it had all become meaningless.

I thought that as long as I swallow my anger, work hard, and make up for my "mistakes", my parents' attitude would get better and they would remember the love they once had for me.

I took on all the housework: washing clothes, cooking, doing groceries, mopping the floor…

I worked more diligently than a maid, changing the variety of dishes and keeping the house spotless.

But no matter how well I did, I couldn't earn a kind word or a smile from my parents.

I grew thinner and more haggard.

The neighbors eventually noticed. They gossiped about me in private.

Some of them advised my parents, "Don't be so harsh on Brandon. He's your son."

But my mother, in front of the neighbors, said with a look of disgust, "We just pretend we don't have this son. He's a monster, a jinx that ruins the family's luck! With him in the house, our family will never know peace!"

My father also chimed in, "We raised him for 18 years, so we've already done our best! Now, he's just freeloading at home. He's a burden to us!"

These words stabbed my heart like a knife, hurting me so much I couldn't breathe.

Everything that happened in the family, big or small, was a reason for my parents to attack me.

Finally, the incident with my sister became the straw that broke the camel's back.

That day, only my sister and I were home. I needed to go to the toilet, but I found that the storage room door wouldn't open.

I anxiously pounded on the door. "Heidi, can you open the door for me?"

No one opened the door for me. I only heard the sound of things breaking outside.

Following that was my sister's cry of pain.

Later, the door finally opened. It was my mother who opened it, and with it came a slap from her. She put all her strength into it.

"You jinx! I knew nothing good would happen at home as long as you're here!" Her eyes were bloodshot, looking like an angry beast.

She sat down on the floor, slapping her thighs and crying, "Why is my life so hard? I raised a monster son! Because of him, our family will never know peace!"

Right then, my father came home. When he saw my sister's broken leg and my mother's agitated state, he seemed to be infected by the mood.

He grabbed my collar, pulled me up, and threw me hard onto the bed.

"Just die, you disaster!"

I cried myself hoarse, desperately trying to explain.

"Mom, Dad, it's not my fault. Heidi wanted to take the candy on top of the cupboard and fell..."

I was locked up, not given any food or water.

I could hear the sounds outside. I could hear my mother cooking in the kitchen. I could hear my father's footsteps when he returned from work. I could hear my sister complaining loudly that her leg hurt.

No one mentioned me.

I curled up on the cold bed, shivering, my cheek swollen high. My body was burning with a high fever that wouldn't go down. My consciousness was slowly fading.

This time, I really thought I was going to die.

Death didn't sound so bad. It would be a relief to die.

18 years of memories flashed through my hazy mind like a movie.

Ever since I could remember, I could tell that my parents looked at me differently.

At first, I didn't understand the meaning of this look. It felt like they were looking at a porcelain doll that would break at any moment. Their gazes were cautious and immensely complicated.

Later, I understood that it was a mix of pity, helplessness, and grief.

They never mentioned my future.

Our family had always been living around a countdown.

The aunties in the neighborhood praised me for being well-behaved, saying that this boy was always quiet, never noisy or making trouble.

What they didn't know was that I simply couldn't be bothered to make trouble.

I was well-behaved from a young age because there was no reason to throw tantrums.

The other kids at my kindergarten would cry over a piece of candy or throw a tantrum because they didn't get a flower.

I wouldn't. My candy was always the biggest one, and I always got the first flower.

The teachers liked me, saying that this boy never gave them trouble.

Only I knew I wasn't really obedient.

I was just waiting for the day the number counted down to zero.

Later, my sister was born, and I could see even more guilt in my parents' eyes.

When Heidi was five years old, she secretly ate the meat in my bowl. When my mother found out, Heidi was beaten.

She cried and shouted, "Why can Brandon eat it, but not me?"

My mother didn't answer and just continued hitting her.

After the beating, Heidi hid in the kitchen and cried for a long time.

"Brandon," my sister said softly, "Are you going to die? Mom said you're going to die. Brandon, I don't want you to die. I'll give you all the meat from now on."

The memories of my mother and sister's eyes intertwined with their current selves, giving me a splitting headache.

Did they love me?

They did love me, but this love had a time limit. It was built on a countdown and was meant to end.

After 18 years, the countdown ended, and the love vanished.

If I died, the love would have remained perfect in my memories.

We would all be our most gentle selves.

In my memories, my mother lovingly stroked my head and said, "Brandon looks so handsome in this little suit."

My father held me up high, saying he wanted to take me to see the most beautiful scenery in the world.

My sister secretly saved her precious yogurt for me.

These memories seemed so close, yet so far away.

I struggled to open my eyes. I was still in that storage room.

No light came in. The room was empty.

I moved my fingers, wanting to feel the letter under the pillow.

It was a letter I wrote to my parents and sister.

I wrote it a while ago, but I didn't die. My lips curled into a bitter smile.

There was also a golden piggy bank. There wasn't a lot of money in it, but there was enough to buy a small toy for my sister.

I fell asleep again.

When they find me and see these things, surely they won't be angry at me anymore, right?

This time, I slept soundly, without any dreams.

I heard my own heartbeat.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Then slowly, slowly, it faded away.

The storage room became completely quiet.

No one realized.

No one came to check.

The boy waiting for death could finally stop waiting.

The moment my consciousness left my body, I felt very, very light.

I floated in mid-air. Seeing the stiff body on the bed, I sighed.

So the soul really does leave the body after death.

I passed through the wall and finally left the small room.

Lunch was set on the table, with three sets of tableware.

My mother had cooked the food, my father was serving it, and my sister was sitting at the table, waiting.

I also sat in my seat.

I waited for them to ask, "Where's Brandon?"

But that didn't happen.

After the meal, my sister limped towards the storage room. My eyes lit up.

I shouted in a voice no one could hear, "Heidi, open the door! I won't be a bother to you guys anymore!"

But before her hand could touch the door, my mother scolded her.

"Heidi, what are you doing?! Stay away from that room! Does your leg not hurt anymore?!"

My sister was frightened and quickly left.

That afternoon, our neighbor, Auntie Mary, came to borrow salt. She asked, "Where's Brandon? I haven't seen him for a few days."

My mother's expression stiffened, but quickly returned to normal. "He's resting in his room. He's not feeling well."

"Is he okay? I have medicine..."

I smiled bitterly. Auntie Mary, no medicine can save me now.

"There's no need!" My mother's voice sounded a little anxious. "It's... It's nothing. He'll be fine after a few days of rest."

Auntie Mary didn't ask any further, and once again, I lost the chance to be found.

After Auntie Mary left, my mother looked at the storage room several times, but never went over once.

In the evening, my father came home. I spread my arms to stop my father. "Dad, please go check on me! I won't make you angry anymore! The countdown is over!"

But my father simply passed through me.

"Is he still locked up?" he asked.

My mother stayed silent.

"Open the door," my father said.

I was overjoyed. Would I finally be found?

Would my parents be sad?

Would they praise me for being a good kid?

As my mother was walking to the storage room, the phone rang.

After my father answered it, his expression changed drastically. He almost lost his balance.

My mother was startled. She quickly ran over to support him.

I sighed. It was so close. I was almost found.

"We have to go to my hometown! Someone from the village called and said Mom is dying!"

They took my sister and left in a hurry. The storage room door remained unopened. I was forgotten again.

Although I already died and had no heartbeat, hearing the news about my grandmother still made my heart ache.

In the last 18 years, my grandmother was the one who loved me the most. Knowing that I could only live for 18 years, she could barely sleep every night.

I followed my parents back to my father's hometown to see my grandmother for the last time.

My grandmother lay on the bed, withered and frail.

She tightly grabbed my father's hand and struggled to speak. "Daryl, where's Brandon? Why isn't he here?"

My father guiltily looked away. "He... he's at home. He didn't come with us..."

My grandmother suddenly widened her eyes. "You fool, what did you do?"

My father was startled and instantly told her the truth, "Brandon made a mistake, so I punished him by making him go hungry..."

When my grandmother heard this, she suddenly lost all her strength. She murmured something.

"What did you say, Mom? I can't hear you." My father got closer to try and hear what my grandmother was saying. "Brandon… didn't die… what?"

His ear was almost touching my grandmother's lips.

I was too far away and couldn't hear what my grandmother said.

I only saw my father's body instantly stiffen, as if struck by lightning.

He seemed to be in utter disbelief, even forgetting to blink.

"Brandon!!"

I was startled to hear my father scream my name like that.

His face was ashen. Ignoring my mother's questions, he kept muttering, "We made a mistake... We made a mistake..."

What mistake?