Become a Dad Lottery Machine

I was the only one in my family cursed—or blessed—with the ability to reset my life upon death.

Even before I could properly talk, my mother would cover the grimy walls with lottery numbers written in charcoal, forcing me to memorize them.

If I mispronounced or misremembered a number, my mother would take a needle and meticulously stitch the incorrect digits onto my arm, each jab a painful reminder, meant to "deepen my memory."

By the time I turned six, I had memorized every lottery number from every drawing since my birth.