Chapter 1 · His Mother's Birthday Became My Death Day

The night I slipped and fell in the bathroom, Michael Goodwin was at the hospital with his mom.

He ignored all my calls.

After my phone ran out of battery and shut off, he only sent me one message: [Don't bother me with this trivial stuff.]

Two days after I died, his friend Ryan saw a notification from the community. "Michael, they've put up police tape outside your building," he said.

Michael kept his head down, peeling an apple for his mom. "Did she call the cops again to scare me?" he asked, his voice flat.

Ryan said nothing. After a moment, he handed Michael a screenshot from the community. It read: [Grace Goodwin, resident of 1203, confirmed dead.]

The knife in Michael's hand bit into his finger.

Blood dripped onto the apple, but he didn't flinch. He stared at my name, completely still.

*****

When I died in the bathroom, Michael was at the hospital with his mom, Agnes Goodwin, celebrating her birthday with cake.

It was almost funny, looking back.

That morning, I'd been in the kitchen, slow-cooking chicken soup for her for three hours.

She'd told me she couldn't taste anything in the hospital, but she was craving my soup.

My stomach hurt so bad I could barely stand, but I still went to the market for chicken.

On my way home, it started to rain. The plastic bag cut into my fingers, leaving them red and sore.

But I kept telling myself that Michael was already exhausted these days.

His mom was in the hospital, and work was piling up on him. I didn't want to make things harder.

I packed the soup into a thermos, planning to take a quick shower before heading to the hospital.

The bathroom floor was wet.

I slipped, and my head crashed into the sharp corner of the sink.

For a moment, everything went blindingly white.

My ears buzzed with a loud ringing.

I lay sprawled on the icy tiles, my fingers clawing desperately for something to grab.

My phone was sitting right there on the shelf by the door.

Almost there.

Just one more inch.

I summoned the last bit of strength I had and grabbed it.

A corner of the screen was shattered, but it still flickered to life.

I called Michael.

First call, no answer.

Second call, still nothing.

Third call, he hung up.

The pain was so intense I couldn't even cry. All I could do was record a voice message, gasping it out bit by bit, "Michael... help me..."

After I sent it, my phone got wet, and the screen started glitching.

I waited for what felt like forever.

So long that I thought he might actually call me back.

But all he sent was one message: [Don't bother me with this trivial stuff. It's my mom's birthday today.]

I stared at his reply.

My chest suddenly hurt more than the back of my head.

To him, my dying was only another trivial thing.

Then my phone died, the screen going black.

The bathroom light stayed on all night.

I lay on the floor until my breath finally stopped.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was floating above everything.

I saw my body curled up in the corner of the bathroom, hair drenched, face so pale I barely looked alive.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

I tried to get up, but my hand went straight through me.

I was dead.

But Michael had no idea.

He was still in the hospital room, cutting cake for his mom.

Agnes smiled, "Michael, Emily's here too. Give her a big piece."

Emily stood by the bed in a white dress, her smile soft and gentle. "I'll just have a small piece, Agnes."

Michael gave her the biggest piece. "You need something sweet for your blood sugar."

I hovered by the door, watching all this, and suddenly felt so tired.

Emily was Michael's first love. She'd been overseas for three years and came back two weeks ago.

The moment she returned, Agnes got sicker.

Michael was at the hospital every day, his phone practically glued to his hand.

But when I called him for help, he never picked up.

Agnes took a bite of cake and suddenly asked, "Where's Grace? Didn't she say she'd bring the soup? Why isn't she here yet?"

Michael glanced at his phone, his brow furrowing.

On the screen was the last voice message I'd sent him.

He didn't even bother to open it.

He said coldly, "She's throwing another tantrum."

Agnes's expression turned cold. "She's so petty. She knew it was my birthday and still didn't show up. Michael, I've always said she's not right for you."

Emily spoke up softly, "Agnes, don't be upset. Maybe Grace got held up or something."

Michael set his phone face down on the table. "What could she be doing?"

I stood right next to him, silently watching.

Michael, I was in serious trouble.

I was dead.

*****

The next morning, Michael didn't come home. He stayed at the hospital with his mom all night.

When Agnes‌ woke up, the first thing she asked was: "Grace still hasn't come?"

Michael leaned back on the couch with dark circles under his eyes.

He picked up his phone and checked it.

I didn't call him again.

Dead people couldn't make phone calls, after all.

But he actually looked relieved, letting out a cold, bitter laugh. "Finally, some quiet."

His words felt like a needle, stabbing right into the heart I no longer had.

Chapter 1

The night I slipped and fell in the bathroom, Michael Goodwin was at the hospital with his mom.

He ignored all my calls.

After my phone ran out of battery and shut off, he only sent me one message: [Don't bother me with this trivial stuff.]

Two days after I died, his friend Ryan saw a notification from the community. "Michael, they've put up police tape outside your building," he said.

Michael kept his head down, peeling an apple for his mom. "Did she call the cops again to scare me?" he asked, his voice flat.

Ryan said nothing. After a moment, he handed Michael a screenshot from the community. It read: [Grace Goodwin, resident of 1203, confirmed dead.]

The knife in Michael's hand bit into his finger.

Blood dripped onto the apple, but he didn't flinch. He stared at my name, completely still.

*****

When I died in the bathroom, Michael was at the hospital with his mom, Agnes Goodwin, celebrating her birthday with cake.

It was almost funny, looking back.

That morning, I'd been in the kitchen, slow-cooking chicken soup for her for three hours.

She'd told me she couldn't taste anything in the hospital, but she was craving my soup.

My stomach hurt so bad I could barely stand, but I still went to the market for chicken.

On my way home, it started to rain. The plastic bag cut into my fingers, leaving them red and sore.

But I kept telling myself that Michael was already exhausted these days.

His mom was in the hospital, and work was piling up on him. I didn't want to make things harder.

I packed the soup into a thermos, planning to take a quick shower before heading to the hospital.

The bathroom floor was wet.

I slipped, and my head crashed into the sharp corner of the sink.

For a moment, everything went blindingly white.

My ears buzzed with a loud ringing.

I lay sprawled on the icy tiles, my fingers clawing desperately for something to grab.

My phone was sitting right there on the shelf by the door.

Almost there.

Just one more inch.

I summoned the last bit of strength I had and grabbed it.

A corner of the screen was shattered, but it still flickered to life.

I called Michael.

First call, no answer.

Second call, still nothing.

Third call, he hung up.

The pain was so intense I couldn't even cry. All I could do was record a voice message, gasping it out bit by bit, "Michael... help me..."

After I sent it, my phone got wet, and the screen started glitching.

I waited for what felt like forever.

So long that I thought he might actually call me back.

But all he sent was one message: [Don't bother me with this trivial stuff. It's my mom's birthday today.]

I stared at his reply.

My chest suddenly hurt more than the back of my head.

To him, my dying was only another trivial thing.

Then my phone died, the screen going black.

The bathroom light stayed on all night.

I lay on the floor until my breath finally stopped.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was floating above everything.

I saw my body curled up in the corner of the bathroom, hair drenched, face so pale I barely looked alive.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

I tried to get up, but my hand went straight through me.

I was dead.

But Michael had no idea.

He was still in the hospital room, cutting cake for his mom.

Agnes smiled, "Michael, Emily's here too. Give her a big piece."

Emily stood by the bed in a white dress, her smile soft and gentle. "I'll just have a small piece, Agnes."

Michael gave her the biggest piece. "You need something sweet for your blood sugar."

I hovered by the door, watching all this, and suddenly felt so tired.

Emily was Michael's first love. She'd been overseas for three years and came back two weeks ago.

The moment she returned, Agnes got sicker.

Michael was at the hospital every day, his phone practically glued to his hand.

But when I called him for help, he never picked up.

Agnes took a bite of cake and suddenly asked, "Where's Grace? Didn't she say she'd bring the soup? Why isn't she here yet?"

Michael glanced at his phone, his brow furrowing.

On the screen was the last voice message I'd sent him.

He didn't even bother to open it.

He said coldly, "She's throwing another tantrum."

Agnes's expression turned cold. "She's so petty. She knew it was my birthday and still didn't show up. Michael, I've always said she's not right for you."

Emily spoke up softly, "Agnes, don't be upset. Maybe Grace got held up or something."

Michael set his phone face down on the table. "What could she be doing?"

I stood right next to him, silently watching.

Michael, I was in serious trouble.

I was dead.

*****

The next morning, Michael didn't come home. He stayed at the hospital with his mom all night.

When Agnes‌ woke up, the first thing she asked was: "Grace still hasn't come?"

Michael leaned back on the couch with dark circles under his eyes.

He picked up his phone and checked it.

I didn't call him again.

Dead people couldn't make phone calls, after all.

But he actually looked relieved, letting out a cold, bitter laugh. "Finally, some quiet."

His words felt like a needle, stabbing right into the heart I no longer had.