Chapter 2

Celeste

I woke up with wet cheeks.

There were tear stains on my pillow, though I couldn't remember crying. Perhaps it happened in my dreams, or perhaps that five-year-old girl in my subconscious was crying again. She always appeared when I was most vulnerable, reminding me of where all the pain began.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, making patterns on the floor. I stared at those spots of light, suddenly remembering an afternoon nineteen years ago—the same kind of sunlight streaming through the living room windows, illuminating my tiny figure.

It was my fifth birthday.

I remembered wearing a pink dress that day, a birthday gift from Kieran. He was ten then and still bought me presents. I thought that was how brothers were supposed to be—gentle, thoughtful, surprising you with gifts on your birthday.

But everything changed when I ran excitedly to my father, hoping he would wish me a happy birthday too.

"Dad, why don't I have a mom?" I asked, looking up at him with my small face. "All the other kids have moms who brush their hair and kiss them. Why don't I have one?"

Dad was reading the newspaper. When he heard my question, his hands froze. The paper trembled slightly in his grip before he slowly lowered it and looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before.

There was pain in his eyes, and anger, and something else I didn't understand until years later—he resented me.

"Your mother died giving birth to you."

His voice was soft and cold, flat and cold.

I froze. At five, I didn't fully comprehend the meaning of death, but I knew it wasn't good. Seeing the expression on Dad's face, seeing the pain in his eyes, Something clicked.

"Is... is it because of me?" My voice became very small, barely a whisper.

Dad didn't answer, but his silence was answer enough.

In that moment, I understood everything. I was the one who killed my mother.

I still remember that feeling—like suddenly falling into a black hole, surrounded by cold darkness. I wanted to cry but couldn't. I just stood there, watching Dad turn his back to me.

From that moment on, I began to reexamine my life. Why did Dad never seem to see me? Why did he never initiate conversations with me? Why did he always sigh when I called his name?

Now I understood it all.

I sat up in bed, watching the gradually brightening sky outside my window. All those memories came rushing back.

The days after I turned five became painfully clear. I started noticing all the details—how Dad would stop talking when I entered a room, how he would step back when I tried to get close to him. Every year on Mom's death anniversary—my birthday—he would visit her grave alone, returning with red-rimmed eyes, then look at me and sigh.

That sigh seemed to say: "Why was it her who died, and not you?"

Kieran was the same. At first, he was kind to me, but as he grew older, he became distant.

It happened on a rainy day when I wanted to watch TV with him, but he was looking at Mom's photo. I accidentally bumped into him, and the photo fell, the glass frame shattering. He turned around angrier than I'd ever seen him.

"Get away from me! This is all your fault!"

His voice echoed through the living room, hammering into my heart. I looked at him, at this brother who once bought me birthday gifts, and suddenly felt like I was looking at a stranger.

I picked up a piece of broken glass, cutting my finger. Blood dripped onto Mom's photo.

Kieran saw the blood and hesitated, but he didn't apologize or care about my wound. He just said coldly, "Just... don't touch my stuff, okay?"

After that, the distance between us grew. He stopped giving me gifts, stopped talking to me, even stopped looking at me. I became invisible in this house, a person who shouldn't exist.

Nobody wanted me around. Because of me, Dad lost his beloved wife. Because of me, Kieran lost his mother.

I figured this was just my life. Then Delphine showed up when I was thirteen.

She moved from Boston to live with us. I remember how she looked the first time she walked through our door—golden hair, sweet smile, and that natural confidence. She was three years older than me, two years younger than Kieran, right in the middle.

But more importantly, she carried no sin. Her arrival hadn't taken anyone's life. She was pure, innocent.

I watched eighteen-year-old Kieran voluntarily carry her luggage, gently asking if she was tired or hungry. That gentleness, that care—I had never seen it before. There was no coldness in his eyes, no resentment, only the love a brother should have for his sister.

"Delphine, your room is upstairs. I've prepared it for you," Kieran said softly, as if soothing a child.

"Thank you, Kieran," Delphine smiled sweetly, then turned to me. "You must be Celeste. I'm Delphine. We're family now."

She extended her hand to me, smiling kindly. But as I looked at her, what welled up inside me wasn't welcome, but an indescribable jealousy and pain.

I realized then that Kieran could be nice to others. He wouldn't scowl, wouldn't tell her to "get out," wouldn't back away when she approached. That was how a brother truly treated a sister.

And that would never be me.

That night, lying in bed, I heard laughter from downstairs. Kieran was chatting with Delphine, and Dad had joined the conversation. I heard them talking about life in Boston, about Delphine's school, about her friends.

That warm family atmosphere was something I had never experienced.

I suddenly understood that this house could be filled with laughter, that Dad could smile, that Kieran could be gentle. It's just that none of it had anything to do with me.

I was the outsider in this family, the person who shouldn't exist.

Now, lying in my apartment bed, I gently touched the dried tear tracks on my cheeks. Those memories remained so vivid, so painful. Even after all these years, that feeling of rejection and resentment could still easily knock me down.

I got up and walked to the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. Pale complexion, haggard expression, and faint dark circles under my eyes.

Six months. Enough time to put everything in order.

I washed my face and changed into my work clothes. I still had to go to the office today, still had things to take care of. I'd do my job, live my life, and handle whatever came next.

At least I could go out on my own terms.

My phone rang—a colleague urging me to hurry for a meeting. I glanced at the time; I was almost late.

"I'll be right there," I said into the phone, my voice sounding normal. No one would know the painful memories I had just relived.

I grabbed my bag, locked the door, and headed for the elevator. Today was a new day, possibly one of my last, but I would still make the most of it.

After all, I was used to bearing everything alone.