Chapter 1
On the third day after my death, my seventeen-year-old brother Ethan Jones walked into Derek Smith's company, clutching my urn.
Ethan was blind. I had recited the company address to him, letter by letter, so he could remember it.
The receptionist stopped him and called up to Derek's office on the thirty-second floor.
Derek sneered, "Here it comes again? Tell Luna I've seen her faking death trick a million times.
"If she wants to scam me with a fake death certificate for a few hundred dollars, she can drag herself over here and beg on her knees."
Ethan didn't understand what "fake death" meant. He only heard my name.
"Luna is dead," Ethan said softly, holding out the urn. "She's here."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
Then Derek said, "Kick that scammer out."
Ethan wasn't thrown out.
Because he knelt on the lobby floor, holding the urn, his hands were bloody.
The urn was the cheapest kind, about twenty dollars, made of thin plywood with cracked corners. After holding it and walking for two hours, the splinters had left his palms covered in cuts.
Ethan couldn't see the blood, but he could feel the wet, sticky sensation in his hands. He thought it was sweat.
The receptionist stood behind the counter, her hand on the phone, not moving.
She watched Ethan kneel on the marble floor, the urn resting in front of his knees, like he was holding a baby in his arms.
His eyes were a milky gray, unfocused, staring straight ahead, lost in the void.
He couldn't see anything.
"My sister's name is Luna," Ethan said, his voice soft, but the lobby was so quiet that every word was clear.
He added, "Her husband is Derek Smith. She's been dead for three days, and no one has come to claim her.
"I borrowed money to have her cremated. I'm here to ask Derek for the funeral expenses."
The receptionist took her hand off the phone, hesitated, then put it back on the receiver.
She'd already made the call. Derek told her to throw him out.
Two security guards walked over. One was young, the other older.
The older one glanced at the boy kneeling on the floor, then at the urn in front of him, and his steps faltered for a moment.
The younger one didn't slow down. He went straight for Ethan's arm.
Ethan didn't resist. He just hugged the urn tighter, lowered his head, pressing his chin against the lid.
"Please don't touch Luna," he said.
His voice trembled, but his words were clear.
He continued, "You can hit me, drag me, throw me out onto the street. But don't touch this box.
"Luna spent her whole life being pushed around by others. Now that she's dead, just let her have some peace."
The young guard's hand froze in midair.
The older guard turned to the receptionist and said, "Call up again. Tell Mr. Smith this kid seems genuine, not some scammer."
The receptionist dialed Derek's number again.
This time, Derek's assistant, Oliver Taylor, answered.
"Oliver, there's someone in the lobby. He says he's Mrs. Smith's brother, and he's got an urn with him. The security guards are asking what to do," the receptionist said.
Oliver didn't answer right away.
He glanced through the glass wall at Derek, who was signing papers, his face cold and bored, as he'd just finished dealing with something pointless.
"I'll come down and take a look," Oliver replied.
He hung up, grabbed his coat, and walked out. When he reached the elevator, he paused for a moment and glanced back toward Derek's office.
Derek didn't even look up. Then Oliver took the elevator down.
As he crossed the lobby, the first thing he saw was Ethan kneeling on the floor.
Those pale, gray eyes. Hands caked with dried blood. In his arms, a cracked wooden urn.
Oliver paused for a moment.
He'd been Derek's assistant for six years, and he'd seen all kinds of people show up looking for trouble.
He only knew a bit about me, not much. Derek never brought me up, and Oliver never asked.
All he knew was that Derek had a wife living in a basement apartment in the old part of town, and he sent me a tiny monthly allowance.
He'd never seen Ethan before.
He walked over to Ethan, crouched down, and asked, "What's your name?"
Ethan's pale gray eyes turned toward him, but did not quite meet his gaze.
"Ethan," he replied.
Oliver asked, "Is Luna your sister?"
Ethan replied, "Yes."
Oliver looked at the urn. It was made of thin, unpainted wood, with rough edges.
On the lid, someone had scrawled my name, Luna, in marker, messy and uneven.
The handwriting was big and clumsy, like a child's.