Melody was an obedient child, timid by nature. Without Hope or me giving her permission, she would never wander into an unfamiliar place on her own.

But surveillance footage showed otherwise. It captured her seemingly spotting something familiar, waving at it, and then running out of the camera's view with a smile.

We searched everywhere among familiar friends and acquaintances. Just as we were about to call the police, a letter was delivered by the security guard.

It read, "Call the police, and you'll see her dead."

Later that evening, the security guard handed over a video.

The background showed an abandoned concrete building.

Melody was huddled in a corner, her small body filthy, her hands and feet bound tightly with duct tape, and a coarse cloth stuffed into her mouth. Beyond that, the video didn't reveal much.

The kidnapper didn't appear on screen but spoke in a cold, distorted voice altered by a voice changer, laying out their demands.

Five million.

And a life for a life.

I could gather five million. Even if it were ten or 20 million, I would sell everything, take out loans, and even resort to loan sharks to save Melody.

But the demand for a life…

I had to call the police. There was no other way.

Just pressing those three buttons soaked me in a cold sweat. My finger hovered over the dial button. However, as if weighed down by an invisible mountain, I couldn't click on it.

Before I could press it, the screen suddenly lit up with an incoming call.

An unknown number.

My heart jolted violently, as though it would explode from the pressure. A paralyzing sense of dread swept over me. My fingers trembled as I swiped to answer the call.

I held the phone to my ear.

All I heard was silence.

The only sound was my own rough, broken breathing, loud and unsteady like the rasp of a bellows.

In that instant, I knew that this was a call from the kidnapper.

He was watching us! He knew I was about to call the police. That was why he called—to warn me!

At that moment, the scales in my mind tipped violently to one side, and an overwhelming wave of regret surged through me.

If anything happened to Melody…

My throat felt like it was blocked by something. I opened my mouth wide in a desperate attempt to speak, but no words came out.

It was Hope, who collapsed on the floor, who realized what was happening. She suddenly lunged forward, snatching the phone from my hand.

She knelt on the ground, babbling incoherently in desperation. Her face was streaked with tears and snot.

"We won't call the police! We promise not to call the police! Please, I beg you, don't hurt Melody. Don't hurt Melody. She's just a little girl…

"If you want someone dead, I'll do it! Kill me! Just kill me! But don't harm my daughter…"

By the time I crawled over, she had already let the phone drop from her hands, her movements listless and dazed.

The call had ended.

I pulled her trembling body into my arms, holding her tightly. My voice, dull and hoarse, slipped out almost mechanically. "I understand. I'll send Mom… Melody will come back safely."

Yes. Melody had to be fine.

Besides, Mom loved me so much. She would definitely agree to it.

Mom was the person who loved me most in the world.

I had an older brother years ago. When he was ten, he drowned in the river while no one was watching. By the time his body was retrieved, it was grotesquely bloated and looked horrifying.

Mom locked herself in her room for three whole days, refusing food and water. She even attempted to ingest pesticides multiple times.

It was my cries, my desperate screams of "Mom!" that echoed outside her door, that finally pulled her back from the brink of death. My voice was reduced to bloodied hoarseness by then.

From that day forward, all the love that once belonged to my brother was poured into me a hundredfold.

Mom protected me in every way possible like I was the apple of her eye.

For me, the grief over my brother's death didn't last long. What lingered was the selfish joy of monopolizing all of Mom's love and care.

But when I hit my teenage years, that meticulous care began to feel like a suffocating cage, pressing down on me until I could barely breathe.

Mom would strictly dictate my every moment, decide who I could associate with, and secretly search my room and even my trash.

If I went out for an hour, she would call to check in on me five times. A minor bruise on me would prompt her to storm into school and cause a scene.

My classmates cornered me in the restroom, mocking me for being a baby who hadn't been weaned yet. They yanked my pants down, jeering, wanting to see if I'd even grown anything.

I couldn't take it anymore. In my rebellion, I grew wild and unruly. I smashed my phone and ran away from home.

Late at night, I unexpectedly ran into a creep who dragged me into a dark alley and molested me.

Thankfully, Mom was still looking for me in the dead of night. She heard my screams and came just in time, fighting that creep with her life.

However, the creep pulled out a knife and stabbed her several times.

She couldn't fight back, so she shielded me with her body, forcing a twisted smile at me through her pain.

At that moment, my rebellion ended, brief and dramatic as it had been.

I truly understood that there was no one in this world who loved me more than Mom.

She endured countless hardships to raise me, yet she never got to enjoy a peaceful life. She spent six years in prison, then ten more in a psychiatric hospital.

When I finally brought her home, she had developed dementia. Most of the time, her mind was a haze, but in rare moments of clarity, she would recognize only me and Melody.

And now, she had to die.

I sat silently on a small stool at her feet, my back hunched so low my chin nearly touched my chest.

Her frail hands held out a bruised apple with a bumpy surface, bringing it up to my face.

"Hunter, have an apple. Apples are good—nutritious. Eat them, and you'll get smarter..."

In my field of vision, her sleeve had pulled back, revealing a jagged scar running up her arm.

It was from that night when she fought to take the knife. Afterward, when she covered my eyes, the sticky blood from her wrist wound dripped down my cheek, sliding behind my ear.

Tears gushed from my eyes instantly. I knelt forward, pressing my face against that scar, my lips trembling as I sobbed loudly. "Mom, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

…

We prepared the ransom.

When it was time and we arrived at the place for the exchange, we parked the car beneath the abandoned building.

Knowing we might be under constant surveillance, we dared not make any reckless moves. All we could do was repeatedly instruct Mom on what to do.

She, in her muddled state, couldn't understand. She kept flashing a silly smile at me.

Hope was on the verge of a breakdown, her fingers digging into Mom's shoulders as she barked, her eyes bloodshot. "When you go into that building, hand the money to the man with Melody. Do you hear me?"

Mom didn't even flinch from the pain; she only looked at Hope in confusion.

I gently pushed Hope's hands aside, placed the black bag filled with money in my mom's arms, and bent down to coax her softly.

"Mom, I want to eat an apple. Can you help me buy some? Go into that building, find the man with Melody, and buy from him. I like the apples he sells."

Recognition lit up in my mom's eyes. Her face broke into a wide smile, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, I will buy you apples, Hunter!"

She clutched the bag tightly as if holding the most precious treasure in the world.

Through my blurred vision, I stared at her face, weathered with wrinkles. For a moment, it felt unfamiliar.

Over the years, I saw so many things—studies, work, houses, cars, a wife, a daughter, and even friends and colleagues. But I never took a proper look at the woman who invested every ounce of her being into raising me selflessly.

What was I doing all these years?

The pain and guilt weighed down on me like an invisible mountain pressing on my shoulders and head, so heavy I couldn't lift them anymore.

Then, a dry, rough hand gently rested on the top of my head.

Mom gently ruffled my hair before turning to leave.

As I watched her frail figure shuffle away, disappearing around the bend of the stairs, a sudden thought hit me.

Did Mom... really not know anything?

Though she was often lost in confusion, there were rare moments when she would regain clarity and play with Melody.

If she knew that this trip meant walking to her death...

My mind went blank. I started to chase after her, but Hope yanked me back with all her strength.

"What are you doing? Do you want to get Melody killed?" she shrieked.

I shook my head slowly, then collapsed onto my knees, defeated.

The kidnappers, to their credit, kept their word. Melody came back that same night.

Aside from red marks on her wrists and ankles from being bound and her eyes swollen from crying, she bore no other visible injuries.

Hope held her precious Melody, crying and laughing in relief, her words tumbling out incoherently.

I grabbed Melody from her arms, gripping her by the arm so tightly she started crying again. I didn't care. "Where's Grandma?" I rasped.

"Hunter!" Hope screamed, bristling like a porcupine, clawing at my hands. "What are you doing? Why are you making Melody recall what happened?"

I didn't let go. Instead, I forced a strained smile, trying to calm Melody. However, it only made her cry louder.

From her broken sobs, I managed to piece together fragments.

It seemed that Mom had told her they were playing a game, and she shouldn't cry or make a fuss and should stay quiet and still.

Hearing this, I couldn't hold on anymore. I collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

Mom was in her right mind after all. She was conscious enough to see that her son was the one who sent her to her death.

Raising my hand, I slapped myself hard across the face repeatedly. I slapped myself until I was dizzy and the metallic taste of blood crept into my throat. Even then, I didn't stop.

Hope gasped, scooping up the frightened Melody and retreating into the room. Moments later, she returned, her face a mix of urgency and sorrow.

Having confirmed Melody was safe, she once again assumed the image of a dutiful, gentle wife.

Not long after, a knock echoed from the door.

The security guard was here to deliver a package.

As he took one look at the chaos inside our home, his face betrayed his shock.

Hope and I stared at the unfamiliar package, fear etched across our faces. It felt as though a relentless specter was haunting us, sending us into utter despair.

An ominous feeling clawed at my mind—this wasn't over.

With trembling hands, Hope got up and accepted the shoebox-sized package. Her face, distorted by terror and unease, turned to me several times. But in the end, she picked up a small knife and cut open the tape.

The lid came off. Instantly, her eyes were filled with terror. Her face drained of its color, twisting grotesquely while her chest heaved in frantic gasps as though her lungs were about to collapse.

Then, she scrambled to the bathroom, tripping and stumbling along the way, and began to vomit violently.

My mind went blank. Slowly, I looked up.

The contents of the box came into view.

It was a severed foot.

Its pale, lifeless skin sagged loosely, and the sole was calloused with thick, hardened skin. There was no doubt whose foot it was.

I broke down, clawing at my hair in despair. Then, I staggered to my feet, smashing everything in sight until nothing was left intact. Finally, my vision darkened, and I went unconscious.

I was losing my mind.

Box after box filled with dismembered remains began arriving at my doorstep.

But it wasn't just at home.

Even while walking down the street, an innocent-looking child would hand me a box.

I grabbed the child, desperately questioning who had given it to him and what they looked like. However, I had never found anyone, even when I chased after them.

When I went to work, my face haggard, I noticed colleagues glancing at me with peculiar expressions as they whispered amongst themselves.

The moment I locked eyes with them, they plastered on stiff, insincere smiles.

My breath quickened. Shaking, I pulled out my blood pressure pills from my pocket, swallowing two without any water before I felt slightly better.

Entering the office area, I found coworkers huddled together, all turning to look at me in unison. A strange tension hung on their faces, as though they all shared a secret.

I pressed my hand hard against my chest, trying to convince myself it was paranoia—that my mind was playing tricks on me.

But through the cracks in the crowd, I caught a glimpse of something familiar.

A shiver ran down my spine.

It was a box.

Did they… see it?