Five years after I died, my body was still at the Riverbend Funeral Home, unclaimed. My best friend, Stacey, had drained her savings, and it was only enough to cover the storage fees for one more week. The staff had warned her: get a burial plot, or my remains would be cremated. Without a signature from a direct family member, they would dispose of the ashes themselves. Desperate, Stacey finally called my brother. “Dorian Spencer,” she said, her voice tight with fury. “Are you really going to abandon your own sister’s remains for your little pseudo-sister?” My brother’s voice was a cold laugh. “To keep up the lie, you’ll stoop to anything, won’t you? Tell Ariel to die for real this time. Tell her to stop playing games and crawling back after a couple of days.” Stacey had no choice. She authorized the cremation. Then, carrying my death certificate, she drove straight to my brother’s mansion. ... 1 When Stacey knocked, my brother, Dorian, was having dinner with Quinn Heather. The rain was coming down hard outside. Rushing out the door, Stacey hadn't taken the time to grab an umbrella. She was soaked through, looking like a drowned rat. Inside the brightly lit villa, a housekeeper quickly opened the door. Stacey barely stepped onto the marble floor before Quinn’s voice, sharp and laced with distaste, cut through the air. “Stop! You’re filthy. Who said you could come inside?” Stacey ignored her. She walked straight to my brother and slammed the death certificate down on the table. “Ariel Spencer is dead, Dorian! Truly dead! She’s your sister. Are you going to do something about it or not?” Dorian set down his fork. He smoothly pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began to wipe his hands, taking his time. He didn't spare Stacey a glance. “I know you two are trying to get money. Tell Ariel to come back and apologize to Quinn.” He spoke as if reading a grocery list. “Name your price, I’ll pay it.” Stacey’s face went white with rage. She snatched the paper off the table and thrust it in front of his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? She’s dead! Dead! How can she apologize? This is the death certificate. You don't trust me—won't you even trust this?” Dorian’s eyes narrowed, ready to snap back. But before he could, Quinn flew over, snatched the document, and tore it into confetti with three swift, vicious rips. “Who would believe something like this?” Quinn pouted, dropping the pieces. “You and Ariel are best friends. Of course, my brother wouldn’t believe a word you say!” Stacey stared at the scraps scattered on the pristine floor, her pupils shaking. Dorian, still leaning back in his chair, backed Quinn up without hesitation. “Quinn is right. I only have one sister now, and I cut ties with Ariel years ago. If she refuses to apologize, then you should just leave.” I hovered above them, feeling the same bitter resignation as Stacey on the floor. Five years. It had been five years, and my brother was still obsessed with an apology I would never give. Stacey’s eyes were bloodshot. She ground her teeth as she spoke. “I can’t believe Ariel had a brother like you.” She turned to leave, but stopped at the door, remembering the words I’d told her five years ago. Holding back a sob, her voice choked. “Ariel’s final wish was to be laid to rest in the family plot, beside our parents.” Stacey took a deep, ragged breath. “Her ashes are at the Riverbend Funeral Home. If a family member doesn’t sign off in three days, they’ll be disposed of. Dorian, you handle it.” 2 Stacey ran out of the villa and immediately crumpled on the curb, weeping uncontrollably. I floated down and sat beside her, listening to her muffled apologies as she buried her face in her hands. “Ariel, I tried my best. I truly did.” I know, Sash. I responded silently, wrapping my ghostly arms around her trembling body. These five years, Stacey had suffered so much. When Dorian and I had that explosive fight over Quinn, it was Stacey who took me in, giving me a place to live, a quiet spot to feel safe. Only a short while later, I died. They dragged my body from the river a week later. My remains were waterlogged, bloated, and almost unrecognizable. Stacey had cried that day, just as she was crying now. “Ariel, I’m so sorry. I thought you had gone home. That’s why I didn’t call sooner. How could this happen… how could this happen?” The police detective had frowned. “Does the deceased have next of kin? The medical examiner confirmed she was sexually assaulted before death. We suspect homicide.” Stacey’s head snapped up, her face draining of color. She fumbled for her phone. “Yes, yes! She has a brother! I’ll call him!” She dialed Dorian's number, but the call never went through. She tried again and again, until finally, Dorian picked up, his voice heavy with impatience and anger. “Tell Ariel this: No apology, no contact!” Then he hung up and shut his phone off. Under the guidance of the police, Stacey tracked down the mansion. The housekeeper told her that Dorian had taken Quinn on a trip overseas. The case stalled. My body remained at the funeral home. Stacey paid the fees for five years, waiting for Dorian and Quinn to finish their global tour. She thought I would finally get my wish to be buried next to Mom and Dad. But Dorian still thought she was lying, covering for me. The rain poured down in torrents. Stacey cried through the night until dawn, her eyes swollen shut. Then, she pushed the wet hair from her face and went home. Back in her apartment, she walked to her bed, numbly opened the nightstand drawer, and pulled out a small, worn journal. She quickly wrapped it up, called a courier, and had it shipped to Dorian’s company office. Watching the courier drive away, she closed her eyes. “Ariel, this is all I can do now.” 3 I followed the package to my brother’s office. Inside, his assistant handed the diary to Dorian. “Mr. Spencer, you have a delivery. It’s a journal. The sender is Stacey.” Dorian didn’t look up, skimming a document. “Read it to me.” The assistant opened the journal to the first page and began to read with a serious, official tone. “January 3rd, 2020. Today, my brother kicked me out.” The temperature in the office seemed to drop instantly. Dorian finally lifted his head, a flicker of something cold and mocking in his eyes. “She’s trying this? Interesting. Keep reading.” The assistant nodded and continued slowly: Today, my brother kicked me out. It was because I slapped Quinn. She found my clinical diagnosis for severe depression and grinned, a truly wicked, ugly thing. She said, ‘You should have done this a long time ago. Why didn’t you just die in the earthquake with your parents? Then I could have your brother all to myself!’ It was absurd. She’s just a girl Dorian sponsored. She has no blood relation to us. How dare she imagine Dorian belongs only to her? I tried to ignore her, but she threw my jewelry box. Inside was the only complete family photo I had left. Quinn was quick. She snatched it up and ripped it to shreds. In a fit of rage, I slapped her. But she was stronger than me. In three swift moves, she had me pinned to the floor. I watched, helpless, as she dumped all my antidepressant medication into the toilet and flushed it away. When Dorian came home, she played the victim, claiming I attacked her and demanded I be thrown out. The look Dorian gave me was so cold. He compressed his lips and said, “Do you want to stay in this family or not? If you do, apologize to Quinn.” I tried to leave, hoping he would stop me. But he didn’t. Instead, he confiscated all my cash, bank cards, and ID. He didn’t even let me grab a change of clothes. “If you’re leaving, then everything I gave you stays here,” he told me. “Tomorrow, I’m telling everyone you are no longer my sister.” Quinn stood behind him, giving me a smug, triumphant smile. It’s been two years. Ever since he took her in as his charitable ward, my life has been a nightmare. After our parents died in the quake, it was just me and Dorian. We depended on each other. I couldn’t accept him bringing someone else home. Worse, I couldn’t stand that he was always telling me to accommodate Quinn because he felt sorry for her hard life. Before, everything was mine. Now, Dorian buys two of everything, and she gets the first choice. When he finally gets a day off, I want to see a movie, but Quinn wants to go shopping. Dorian would always tell me: “We’ll watch the movie next time, Ariel. Let’s go shopping first.” But his “next time” never came. It was always stolen by Quinn. I hate that feeling. A stranger forcing her way into my life, silently stealing everything, and I’m expected to smile and be the understanding little sister. But I care about Dorian too much. He is my brother. If he hadn't lifted me up from the rubble that year, I would have died with Mom and Dad. So, I decided to endure it, all for him. Within six months, I learned to give up the good things to Quinn without Dorian even asking. Whatever she wanted, whatever she wished to do, I never fought back. The cost was my sanity. I developed severe depression. By the time I saw a therapist, it was already critical. The doctor said the seed was planted when my parents died; Quinn’s arrival only fertilized it. I grew more listless, cold, and withdrawn. Even when Dorian actively suggested we spend time together, I had lost all interest. Over time, Dorian grew angry. He called me cold-blooded, petty, and spiteful. He accused me of being jealous of Quinn and giving him attitude. I wanted to explain, but I didn’t know where to start. Our relationship has been spiraling ever since, trapped in a cold war where neither of us will back down. I went to Stacey’s house. It’s so far. I walked for three hours. My feet were raw and blistered. She patched me up and cursed him out. “Your brother is completely out of touch! He’s crazy! Don’t go back. Stay here. You’re safe.” I smiled faintly, suppressing the ache in my heart. “I have to go back. Brother will come looking for me in a few days.” Christmas is coming. We’ve never been apart during the holidays, not once since I was born. I believed he couldn't bear to lose me. 4 The assistant’s voice suddenly cut off. She paused for a moment before saying, “Mr. Spencer, that’s the end of that page.” Dorian played with the pen in his hand, his expression entirely scornful. “She’s really good at playing the victim, isn't she? Clearly, she couldn't stand Quinn but fabricated lies about Quinn tormenting her.” He smirked. “Kicking her out of the house was clearly the right decision.” He shot a cold glance at the assistant. The assistant understood and quickly flipped to the next page, resuming her reading. ... January 5th, 2020. I started looking for a job. Stacey’s family isn’t wealthy, I can’t let her support me. I applied to several companies, but they all turned me down. My education and experience perfectly matched the requirements, but I never made it past the final interview. The last interviewer was a kind-looking woman. I tried pleading with her: “Please, I don't need a high salary. I can live on minimum wage.” The woman looked at me with pity, her gaze heavy with implication. “Don’t bother looking anymore. Nobody in Seaview City will hire you.” “Someone put the word out. Anyone named Ariel Spencer is not to be hired.” I was stunned. It wasn't until I left the building that I fully processed it. Only one person had that kind of power: Dorian. He’s doing this to force me to apologize to Quinn. But I did nothing wrong. Why should I apologize? “Ha.” Dorian scoffed, a sudden, sharp sound. “So Ariel still thought she was innocent and blamed me for making her apologize? I was only trying to polish her character. It seems she didn’t appreciate the effort.” He tossed the pen onto the desk. “Writing this drivel—it’s just a clumsy attempt to play on my sympathy and ask for money, isn’t it?” The assistant glanced at him, silently turning the page. This time, her voice was heavy with foreboding. “January 15th, 2020. I went back to look for my brother.” ... I went back to look for my brother because the snow was about to fall. Every winter, no matter how busy he was, Dorian always took the time to build a snowman with me. We’d have snowball fights, and we’d lie on the ground together, watching the flakes drift down into our eyes. I missed him. Maybe I should just admit I was wrong. Living with a friend isn’t a permanent solution. An apology is all it takes. If I just play cute, he’ll forgive me. But the housekeeper told me Dorian had left on a round-the-world trip with Quinn. He instructed her not to contact him before he left. He didn't want to see me. My brother didn’t want me. ... The page was short. The assistant quickly finished reading. Dorian slammed his hand on the desk, enraged. “When did I ever say that! She’s even lying about me now! Keep reading! I want to see what else Ariel Spencer can invent!” The assistant sighed, turning to the next page. This time, her eyes widened, and her voice trembled uncontrollably. “New Year’s Eve. I was raped.” 5 I had only gone out to buy frozen sausage roll. Stacey wanted me to spend the holiday with her family, but I didn’t want to impose. I walked back, wondering what my brother was doing. Is he building a snowman with Quinn and eating sausage rolls? Oh, right. He’s probably in some tropical city right now. I don’t even know if it snows there, or if they celebrate the holiday. I laughed at myself. I realized how slow-witted I’d become since I stopped taking my antidepressants. The houses along the street were all warmly lit, and children were setting off fireworks. I walked slowly, taking it all in, when suddenly, everything went black. A second later, several hands dragged me into a hidden alley, away from the streetlights and cameras. They were on top of me, tearing off my clothes. My screams that night were swallowed whole by the sound of the fireworks. This gruesome butchery finally stopped at dawn. I was left on the cold pavement, utterly gutted, my eyes staring blankly at the sky. A man climbed off my body and spat on my face. “Daring to mess with Quinn? This is your punishment!” I watched them walk away, detached, and slowly managed to get dressed. Then, I walked back to Stacey’s place. I know my writing is incoherent now. I can’t even write a full sentence. My hands are shaking, and I can barely hold the pen. I left a note for Stacey— My greatest wish is to be buried in the family plot when I die. Please, bury me with Mom and Dad. Dorian doesn’t want me. I’m going to find them. I hope Stacey won’t be too sad when she finds out I’m gone. I hope when Dorian sees my body, he can forgive me and stop demanding an apology. ... The assistant’s voice was completely hoarse. After she finished reading, the office was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Dorian forced himself to laugh, feigning composure. “They are so dedicated. To get money from me, they even created a scenario this elaborate, this realistic.” He pulled out his phone and called Stacey. She answered quickly. Dorian was the first to speak, his voice hard. “Tell Ariel to come get the money herself. If she just apologizes, I’ll let her come home. Stop sending these pathetic, flowery diaries. I won't believe them!” Silence hung on the line for a moment before Stacey sighed. “Dorian, I sold my apartment. I’m moving away. Don’t ever contact me again about Ariel.” I understand Stacey. She was exhausted. Over the years, Quinn used her connections to make Stacey's life a living hell. Dorian knew about it, but he allowed Quinn’s actions, all in an effort to pressure me into apologizing. Stacey had been forced to switch jobs countless times while desperately trying to cover my funeral home fees. She spent every last dime she had. She stood vigil by my unclaimed body countless times, collapsing in front of me, sobbing. “Why did you have to die so vaguely! You think death is an escape?” But right after, she’d wipe her tears and apologize. “I’m sorry, Ariel, none of this is your fault... but I'm so tired. I’m truly so tired!” I was overcome with shame. If I had known how much she would suffer, I would have knelt before Quinn five years ago and begged for forgiveness. If only I had known. Dorian hung up the phone and sat in silence for a long time. The assistant cautiously observed his face, then tentatively offered, “Mr. Spencer, should we... should we look into this?” “No.” Dorian’s expression was blank. He stood up and headed for the door. “Stacey said Ariel is dead. I'll humor her one last time.” He bit out the last sentence, his voice cold. “Her ashes are at the Riverbend Funeral Home, aren’t they? I’m going to go see for myself.” “If they’re lying to me,” he growled, “I will make them pay.”
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