Chapter 2

My father lay in the ICU for forty days. My mother sat in the hallway every day, clutching his faded wool sweater. The frayed edges brushed against her knees, making her look like a bird drenched in rain. I drifted through the room, watching the monitor's jagged lines soften into faint waves, the needle marks on my father's hand forming a dense patchwork. Suddenly, I remembered how he used to carry me on his shoulders when I was little, saying, "My Clara will become a painter and travel the world." Asher visited only once. That day, he wore a black coat with a white rose pinned to the collar, as if attending another funeral. When a nurse stopped him, he waved a document folder. "I'm here to sign the equity transfer agreement." My mother lunged at him, biting his arm, her nails digging into the expensive cashmere. "You monster! My husband isn't dead yet!" He stood motionless, letting her cries echo against the hallway tiles. Only when security pulled her away did he crouch down, using a handkerchief to wipe her tears off the documents. "Mrs. Gray, sign it. The shares Clara exchanged for her life shouldn't rot in a hospital." "Get out!" Her voice cracked. "You killed my daughter! You didn't even spare her ashes..." His hand paused over the signature line, ink blotting the name "Asher Blake" into an ugly flower. Watching his Adam's apple bob, I suddenly remembered a rainy night three years ago. I had a fever of 39 degrees, and he stood by my bed, clutching Olivia's photo, saying, "Why don't you just die?" Back then, I shivered under the blanket, thinking it was just anger talking. My father never woke up. At his funeral, my favorite piano piece played. As my mother mixed his ashes with mine, the dust clung to her pearl bracelet like scattered glitter. Asher stood at the back of the crowd, his black suit sleeves stained with mud. "Don't touch him!" My mother's voice was hoarse, like a broken gong. "You're not fit to be near anyone in the Gray family!" The late autumn wind rustled fallen leaves against the villa's floor-to-ceiling windows. Asher sat in the empty living room, two documents laid out before him. One was the newly signed equity transfer, the other my death certificate. A crystal glass on the coffee table held whiskey, the melting ice tracing circles at the bottom like the scar on my wrist that never had time to heal. "It shouldn't have been a car accident. How could... Olivia was so kind. How could she think of killing someone..." He suddenly grabbed the certificate and rushed into the study, frantically searching for something. Cigars spilled from a box, one still bearing faint lipstick marks. On my birthday last year, I'd secretly arranged them into a heart shape. When he found out, he threw the entire box into the trash. "Where is it..." he muttered, his fingers brushing against a hidden compartment on the top shelf. Inside was an old tin box Olivia used to store love letters. I hovered by the bookshelf, watching him tremble as he opened it. "Impossible..." He crumpled the medical report, his thumb rubbing over the words "unsuitable for strenuous activity." Suddenly, he remembered something and rushed out of the villa. The accident site had been developed into a commercial district. Asher stood on the newly paved asphalt road, pointing at the traffic light and shouting at a security guard, "Was there a white sports car here six years ago? The owner was Olivia! Was she trying to run over another girl named Clara Gray?" The security guard thought he was crazy and pressed a stun gun to his chest. "Sir, please leave." When the electric current pierced through his suit, I saw him suddenly laugh, tears streaming down his face. That expression was exactly like when he watched the blood bloom in the bathtub on the day I died.