Chapter 1

I'm no longer alive.

But no one has noticed.

My body is curled up in a corner of the street.

My family probably thinks I'm just throwing another fit, hiding away on purpose.

But this time, it's different.

I'm truly gone.

My sisters, Phoebe Johnson and Lydia Johnson, are watching TV with Mom and Dad. The coffee table is filled with sliced fruit, and Mom is gently feeding them strawberries.

How idyllic.

If I weren't already a ghost, I might have thought this family was happy too.

I drift outside the window.

In the living room, Phoebe is leaning playfully on Mom's shoulder, and Mom’s fingers gently stroke her hair.

“Mom, I want the biggest strawberry,” Phoebe points to the fruit plate.

“Alright, alright, they're all yours.” Mom smiles, her eyes crinkling as she hands the strawberry to her.

Such a familiar scene.

Ten years ago, Esme Johnson used to act like this, while I could only sit on the little stool in the corner, longing.

Back then, though I was alive, I lived as if I were invisible.

Dad suddenly looks up at the window, and I instinctively shrink back.

His gaze passes through my body, landing on the distant streetlight.

“Johnson, what are you looking at?” Mom asks.

“Nothing.” Dad turns back and pats Lydia on the head, “Lydia, do you want some cherries? Dad will buy you some after work tomorrow.”

Lydia smiles sweetly, “Thanks, Dad! You're so good to me.”

A smile appears on Dad's face, a smile I’ve never seen before: “Our Lydia is so good, unlike…”

Unlike who?

I know what he wants to say.

Unlike Nora Johnson, who is awkward and foolish.

“If only Esme were still here…” Mom suddenly says, her voice choking.

Phoebe immediately hugs her, “Mom, don’t be sad. Lydia and I will always love you for her.”

What a charmer.

I drift by the window, watching their happy scene, and suddenly feel like laughing.

In my parents’ eyes, Esme was an angel fallen from the heavens, while I was trash picked up from the ground.

Indeed, Mom always loved my sweet-talking sister more.

My sister died ten years ago.

In a car accident.

Our family was on a trip, and on the way back, she insisted on ice cream.

Dad stopped to buy some, and Mom stayed in the car with us.

Esme suddenly ran out, saying she wanted to buy a hairpin across the street.

Mom didn’t stop her.

When the truck ran over her, she was still clutching that shiny butterfly hairpin.

After that day, my parents changed.

They began to resent me.

Mom often screamed at me, tearing her heart out.

She said, “Why is it you who’s alive, Nora Johnson? Why did Esme have to leave? Why wasn’t it you who died?”

They shifted all their bad emotions onto me.

I know they hate me. They hate that it wasn’t me who died.