Chapter 2

Every ten generations, someone in our family inherits the ability to reset their life.

I happened to be the tenth generation.

So, my parents quit their jobs and stopped farming, focusing solely on having children.

They had seven kids in total. Only when I was born did the ancient family heirloom, a book passed down for centuries, finally react, its pages shifting in color.

That's why, even when I was still babbling, my mother would use burnt-black charcoal to cover the mud walls with lottery numbers, teaching me to read and memorize them.

But as a young child, I constantly struggled to remember. I'd mix up the numbers or get the dates wrong.

At first, Mom didn't hit me.

But once I turned two, my mother, desperate for a better life, finally lost her patience and decided to punish me.

Initially, she only used thin switches to whip my calves. The switch was thin and flexible, but when it cracked against my calves, it stung with an agonizing burn.

However, as more and more lottery numbers accumulated, so did my mistakes.

Mom assumed I wasn't trying hard enough. She started hitting me with a stick as thick as her thumb and burning me with red-hot iron tongs.

Back then, I didn't understand. All I knew was to beg for mercy in my childish voice.

"Mommy, I'm sorry, please don't hit me anymore."

But this usually just infuriated her further.

Her eyes, filled with a monstrous rage, burned holes through me.

"I told you to memorize lottery numbers! Why are you spouting nonsense? Don't you know talking ruins your focus? You're so dumb, when will I ever get to live a good life?"

That's when she'd pull out her embroidery needle, stitching the incorrect numbers onto my arm as if I were a piece of cloth to be mended. Each pierce of the needle sent searing pain through me, but I didn't dare cry or make a fuss.

It wasn't until Dad came home at night that I would finally burst into sobs.

Then, Dad would pull me onto his lap.

"Maya, don't blame your mother. It's because you're so disobedient. If you just listened to your mother and memorized the lottery numbers, why would she use an embroidery needle on your arm? She's doing it for your own good, to help you remember."

"You see how poor we are. The faster you memorize all the numbers, the sooner we can all live a good life."

Listening to the frantic beating of his heart, I, a young child, couldn't understand why memorizing lottery numbers would make our whole family's life better.