Chapter 1

“Recite it! Recite it again! Noah never gets it wrong!”

My dad stood behind me with a ruler in his hand, forcing me to wear the washed-out old sneakers my brother had worn before he died and stand in front of the memorial photo in the living room, reciting high school classical texts and formulas over and over again.

After my brother Noah drowned that summer, my dad went insane.

He made a chilling rule: on odd-numbered days, I was my dead brother Noah, and on even-numbered days, I was the living Ethan.

When I played myself, I could only eat boiled vegetables, because Noah was a sinner and did not deserve meat.

I endured it for three years, until he smashed the art supplies I had secretly saved money to buy, saying Ethan had not grown up yet and no one was allowed to draw.

I finally could not take it anymore and smashed Ethan’s favorite thing.

When my dad forced me to put on those old sneakers, it was already eleven at night.

Today was the second, an even-numbered day.

I was Ethan.

Ethan had good grades, and Ethan had a pair of black basketball shoes.

But Ethan was only sixteen when he died.

I was seventeen this year.

Those size nine shoes did not fit me at all.

“Put them on,” my dad said, sitting on the couch with a belt clenched in his hand, his eyes fixed straight on me.

I gritted my teeth, curled my toes, and forced my foot inside.

The back of the shoe caught on my ankle and scraped the skin raw.

“You didn’t put it on right, do it again.”

The belt lashed across my calf, leaving a red mark.

I did not dodge.

I pulled my foot back out, took a deep breath, and shoved it in again.

This time, the bones in my toes made a faint crack, and the shoe finally went on.

It hurt.

It hurt like hell.

“Recite.” My dad slapped a high school literature textbook onto the coffee table.

When Ethan was alive, he ranked first in his grade and could recite old texts backward.

But I had only finished middle school.

I sat in front of the coffee table, staring at the dense lines of archaic writing, and my mind went blank.

“What are you standing there for? Recite.” My dad’s voice was as cold as ice.

I picked up the book and read a few lines at random.

Smack!

The belt struck my back.

“Wrong! All wrong! Ethan would never recite this text wrong!”

I gripped the book so hard my knuckles turned white.

Every time I got a line wrong, he pinched me.

My arms were covered in bruises.

I gritted my teeth and read without making a sound.

Three years.

For every even-numbered day in the past three years, I had to recite books in this living room.

Sometimes for one hour, sometimes for two.

Only when my dad got tired of watching and went to sleep could I stop.

Tonight, he was in good spirits.

He watched me recite for a full hour.

Just as I was about to collapse, he suddenly stood up.

He walked toward my desk.

My heart sank hard.

Inside the desk drawer were the art supplies I had secretly saved money to buy.

On odd-numbered days, I was Noah.

Noah liked to draw.

But my dad would not let me draw.

He said Ethan had not grown up yet, and Ethan had not learned to draw yet, so what right did Noah have to draw?

He pulled open the drawer.

“Dad!” I stopped reciting, ignored the pain in my arms, and lunged over.

Too late.

He took out the set of paints.

“What is this?” he asked, turning his head to look at me coldly.

“Dad, that’s my...”

“I asked you, what is this?!” He suddenly raised his voice, sharp enough to pierce my ears.

“Paint.”

“Who let you buy it?”

“I saved the money myself...”

“Ethan doesn’t draw!” he screamed hysterically, slamming the box of paints onto the floor.

The plastic case shattered.

Bright colors splashed out and stained the floor.

Still not satisfied, he picked up my sketchbook and tore it in half with a ripping sound.

It was a sketchbook I had filled halfway.

Inside were skies, birds in flight, and a world without Ethan and without a crazy father.

Now, everything was destroyed.

He threw the torn pieces of paper into my face.

“I said Ethan hasn’t grown up yet, and no one is allowed to draw!”

The edge of a scrap of paper cut across my cheek, and it hurt a little.

I looked at the mess all over the floor, at the bright colors and the shredded paper.

Something inside me suddenly snapped.

I did not cry.

I turned around and walked toward the TV cabinet.

On the TV cabinet sat a silver music box.

My dad had bought it for Ethan on his fifteenth birthday.

Ethan loved that music box more than anything.

My dad wiped it every day and would not allow even a speck of dust on it.

I walked over and picked up the music box.

My dad froze.

“What are you doing?” His voice trembled a little.

“Ethan doesn’t draw,” I said, looking at him, each word clear and slow, “and Ethan doesn’t listen to music boxes anymore either.”

I lifted the music box and smashed it hard onto the floor.

Bang!

The metal shell warped out of shape.

The little figure inside popped out, the spring snapped, and a harsh metal scraping sound rang out.

The living room went deathly silent.

My dad stared blankly at the pieces on the floor.

His face was as white as paper.

I thought he would hit me.

I thought he would whip me half to death with the belt.

I was already prepared to take the beating.

But he did not.

He slowly squatted down and picked up the little figure with the broken leg.

His hands were shaking badly.

“Dad.” I gasped for breath and shouted the words I had held back for three years. “Ethan is dead! He died three years ago! He drowned in the reservoir! If you hadn’t been busy drinking back then and had watched him properly, how would he have fallen in?!”

His whole body shook.

The broken half of the little figure fell from his hand.

He raised his head and looked at me.

His eyes were filled with fear, despair, and disbelief.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

I looked at him coldly.

“I was the one who found him by the reservoir.”

“I was the one who pulled him out.”

“His body was swollen from the water and cold as ice.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“It was never my fault.”

“You were the one who killed him.”

I took off the old sneakers and threw them beside his feet.

“I don’t want to be Ethan anymore.”

I turned around, walked back to my room, and locked the door.

That night, there was not a single sound in the living room.

No crying, no cursing, nothing.

The next morning, I opened my bedroom door.

The living room had been cleaned spotless.

The traces of paint were gone, the scraps of paper were gone, and the broken pieces of the music box were gone too.

The old sneakers were placed neatly on the shoe rack.

My dad was not in the living room.

I walked to the TV cabinet.

On the wall, where Ethan’s photo had originally hung, there was now a sheet of white paper.

On the paper, someone had drawn a huge tally mark with a black marker.

Beside it was a line of words.

The handwriting was neat, pressed so hard it nearly cut through the paper.

“Noah, from today on, you are Ethan every day.”