Chapter 2
I followed a stranger back to a home I'd never seen before.
The place was spotless—so clean, it felt cold. Lifeless.
Not a speck of dust anywhere. No signs of anyone actually living there.
It reminded me of him—his pale, expressionless face. Too still. Too quiet.
Years ago, a place like this might've scared me. But now, life or death didn't matter much to me anymore. There was nothing left that I'm afraid of.
I glanced around the room. On the coffee table were several small white pill bottles. I recognized them instantly—they were the same kind I'd once tried to collect.
But doctors were always cautious.
No matter what excuse I gave—stress, insomnia, anxiety—they never gave me more than a few at a time.
I'd spent six months saving them up and still barely managed to get a dozen.
I stared at the bottles.
It was absurd, but I felt a strange, instinctive envy.
That many pills… more than enough to die.
Next to the bottles sat a photo.
It was strange—black and white, about a foot wide.
The man in the picture looked straight into the camera. Calm. Blank. Completely emotionless.
It stood out so much I couldn't help but stare.
Then I glanced at the man standing beside me—his face practically a mirror of the one in the photo. Same expression. Same stillness.
Even after he saw me notice the pills and the photo, his face didn't change.
Without a word, he calmly walked over, gathered them up, and tucked everything into a drawer.
Then he turned to me and said gently, "Sit down. I'll make you something to eat."
So he really believed it. He thought my head was so messed up I couldn't even recognize my own brother.
That thought pulled me back to reality.
Lying to someone already standing on the edge—it didn't sit right with me.
I wanted to tell him the truth. Then leave.
But the image of that photo, those pills… they stayed with me.
And suddenly, I was curious. What had he been through that pushed him so close to the edge? Just like me?
Where did he even get that many pills?
Before I knew it, I'd sat down.
He went into the kitchen. Said he was going to cook. But for a long time, I didn't hear a thing.
I got up and walked to the kitchen door.
He was standing there, staring blankly into the open fridge.
It was as empty as the rest of the apartment.
Not a single ingredient. Not even a bottle of water.
Clearly, no one had cooked here in a long time.
The stovetop was bare—no pots or pans, just a single ceramic jar. The kind used for boiling medicine.
He stood there for a while before finally snapping out of it.
He shut the fridge and turned to look at me.
His voice was soft, almost apologetic. "Sorry. I forgot to buy groceries. I'll go out and get something."
Over the years, I'd looked at myself in the mirror and thought, I'm alive, but I don't feel it. Like I've become some hollow soul, floating outside my own body.
But standing there in that kitchen, I realized—
There was someone else out there who looked even more like the dead than I did.
He walked past me and headed toward the door.
And I realized—I couldn't hear his footsteps. Couldn't even hear him breathe.
It suddenly occurred to me—maybe this stranger, someone I'd just met today, wasn't planning on coming back.
Just like that night… after my fight with Charley. When I fell into the river.
Charley and the doctors had both insisted it was an accident—that the rain was too heavy, the bridge too slick.
That I'd slipped.
But I knew better.
He was already at the entryway, hand on the door, just about to step out.
I looked at his back and said, without thinking, "I like fish."
He froze.
Stiffened slightly, then slowly turned to face me.
His expression unchanged—calm, pale, unreadable. "What?" he asked.
I met his gaze and repeated, "I said, I want fish.
"For dinner. Can you make that for me?"
The front door was still ajar.
Cold wind blew in—late autumn, almost winter.
It rushed through the apartment, tugging at the hem of his coat and messing up his already disheveled hair.
Against the wind, his face looked even more bloodless. Almost ghost-like.
His fingers, hanging by his side, gave the slightest twitch.
After a long pause, he nodded. "Okay."
I watched him walk out. The door clicked shut behind him.
Maybe—just maybe—he'd actually come back.
The thought made me laugh at myself.
I was someone who'd been ready to end it all.
And yet here I was… worrying about whether a stranger might not return.
I sank back into the couch and closed my eyes. The same images came rushing back.
My parents—who should've been alive and well—crushed beneath the rubble.
And me, pulled out alive, surviving by stepping over the lives of the two people who loved me most.
The scene shifted—Charley's face filled with rage, his voice sharp and bitter.
"Erma, you're the one who should've died. That would've been justice."
"After all these years, do you really sleep with a clear conscience?"
No. I didn't.
That was why I hadn't had a single night of real rest in years.
I slipped into a nightmare again—and it took a while to drag myself back out.
When I opened my eyes, they landed on the closed drawer beneath the coffee table.
My hand moved before I could think. I slid the drawer open, reached inside, and pulled out the pill bottles.
I'd never stolen anything in my life. The moment my fingers closed around one of them, my palms were instantly damp with sweat.
But I'd done my homework. I knew the dosage.
If I took half and left the rest for him—well, that'd be enough for both of us to disappear.
My thoughts were hazy. I told myself this was reasonable. Fair.
My fingers trembled as I unscrewed the cap of the first bottle.
Then, out of nowhere, the phone on the coffee table rang.
The sound tore through the silence like a gunshot.
I jumped, nearly dropping the bottle.
My heart thudded.
Guiltily, I set the pills down and grabbed the phone.
I hit "Answer" before realizing—it wasn't mine.
He must've forgotten it when he left.
The call connected.
And immediately, a furious voice exploded through the line.
"Listen to me, Nolan—over 200 million dollars! You really think you can walk away without giving me a dime? Not a chance!
"I might not have raised you, but I sure as hell gave birth to you!
"That little sister of yours died for you—and as your father, I have every right to inherit from a dying son!
"Donate it all? Keep dreaming!"