Chapter 1

There's a whiteboard in our house.

It tracks my countdown.

"Days until Memoria's estimated heart failure: 47 days."

Every morning, Mom carefully erases yesterday's number and writes the new one.

Just like a supermarket sale countdown.

Precise, cold, full of anticipation.

My name is Memoria. I'm twelve years old.

Congenital heart disease. The doctor said without surgery, I won't live past six months.

The surgery costs three million dollars.

My dad, Richard Monroe, is worth two billion.

But he said: "Three million. Not worth it."

Because there's another healthy child in the family.

My younger brother, Adrian.

Eight years old, smart, handsome, plays piano, knows how to please adults.

He's the only one "worth it" in this family.

1

The first time I heard them discussing my death was on a Wednesday evening.

The study door wasn't fully closed.

I was passing by with my medicine bottle when I heard the conversation inside.

Mom Diane's voice was calm, like she was discussing an investment.

"The insurance company confirmed it. Memoria's policy is worth five hundred thousand. Death benefit, with us as beneficiaries."

Dad Richard was flipping through documents.

"Five hundred thousand? We only paid eighty thousand in premiums when we bought it. That's a solid return on investment."

Diane nodded.

"And if it's death by illness, there's no waiting period. Direct payout. I had the lawyer confirm it."

"Then let's not do the surgery."

Richard put down his pen.

"Three million for surgery with only a sixty percent success rate. Better to save it, wait for the insurance payout, net five hundred thousand profit."

"That five hundred thousand would be perfect for Adrian's Swiss summer camp, plus buying a property in a good school district."

Diane hesitated.

"But people will talk."

"Talk about what?" Richard sneered.

"Congenital heart disease. The doctors said it's incurable. We're just respecting medical facts."

"When the time comes, we'll tell everyone we tried everything, but it was God's will."

"We'll hold a respectable funeral, invite some reporters for coverage. Perfect opportunity for positive PR for the company."

My medicine bottle slipped from my hands.

Crash.

The study went silent instantly.

I picked up the bottle and turned to leave.

Diane's voice came from behind:

"Memoria? Why are you out there?"

I didn't turn around.

"Getting my medicine."

"Take your medicine and get to bed early. You have a hospital checkup tomorrow."

"Okay."

I returned to my room and closed the door.

Looking at the whiteboard on my nightstand. 47 days.

So this wasn't a countdown.

It was their "profit arrival date."

That night, I made a decision.

Since they're waiting for me to die.

Then I'll die for them to see.

But not the way they want.

The next day, I didn't go to the hospital checkup.

I went to the insurance company.

The receptionist was startled to see a twelve-year-old girl walk in alone.

"Sweetie, who are you looking for?"

"Ma'am, I'd like to check my policy. My name is Memoria, the policyholder is Diane."

The receptionist hesitated but looked it up for me.

"Your policy... death benefit of five hundred thousand, beneficiaries are your parents Richard and Diane."

"Ma'am, can the beneficiary be changed?"

"Yes, but the policyholder needs to agree. Your mother is the policyholder."

I nodded.

"What if the policyholder doesn't agree?"

"Then it can't be changed."

I thought for a moment.

"What if I buy a policy myself? Can I name someone else as beneficiary?"

The receptionist looked confused.

"Sweetie... you're only twelve. You can't buy insurance yourself. And... why are you asking these things?"

I smiled.

"Nothing. Just wondering if, when I die, the money could go to someone other than my parents."

The receptionist's expression changed.

She crouched down, looking into my eyes.

"Sweetie, is something wrong?"

"No. Thank you, ma'am."

I turned and left the insurance company.

Standing on the street, the sunlight was beautiful.

But I knew I probably wouldn't see many more of these sunny days.

Not because of my heart disease.

But because I'd decided that before they receive that five hundred thousand, I would spend all the money.

Or give it to someone else.

So they wouldn't get a single cent.

When I got home, my brother Adrian was practicing piano in the living room.

Seeing me return, he didn't even look up.

"Memoria, Mom said you didn't go for your checkup. She's really mad."

"Oh."

"She said if you don't cooperate, she'll reduce your medication."

I stopped walking.

"What do you mean?"

Adrian played a chord, saying casually:

"Just what it sounds like. Your medicine is expensive, right? Twenty thousand a month. Mom said if you don't cooperate with treatment, she won't buy it anymore. Because anyway—"

He paused, seeming to find the next words difficult.

"Because anyway what?"

"Because anyway it can't be cured."

My eight-year-old brother said this with exactly the same tone as Dad.

Casual, matter-of-fact.

I looked at him.

This child who'd been treasured since birth.

He wasn't bad. He just never thought my life had any value.

Because from the day he was born, everyone in this house had been telling him—

Sister is a burden, a money pit, a defective product that could break at any moment.

"Adrian."

"Yeah?"

"You play really beautifully."

Adrian finally looked up, somewhat surprised.

"...Thanks."

I went upstairs to my room.

I opened the old tablet Dad gave me—this was the only electronic device that belonged to me in the house, and it was Adrian's hand-me-down.

2

I started searching:

"Can a minor write a will?"

"How to prevent parents from receiving insurance payouts?"

"If a beneficiary commits a crime, can they still get the money?"

The search results gave me one key piece of information:

If the beneficiary intentionally causes the death of the insured, the insurance company will not pay out.

I stared at that line for a long time.

Then I started writing a diary.

Not an ordinary diary.

Evidence.

I used that old tablet and started recording audio and video.

Every time they discussed my insurance, every time they reduced my medication, every time they updated the countdown on the whiteboard.

I recorded it all.

Three days later.

The number on the whiteboard changed to 44.

Mom Diane did reduce my medicine.

I used to take three pills a day, now only two.

"Mom, I'm missing a pill."

Diane was cutting fruit for Adrian, not even looking up.

"The doctor said at this stage you can reduce the dosage."

"The doctor never said that."

Diane's knife paused.

"I'm your mother. If I say reduce, you reduce."

I said nothing more.

Back in my room, I turned on my recording pen.

Saved the conversation I just had.

That evening, Richard came home.

He brought a strange man.

Wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase, with a professional smile.

"Memoria, this is Uncle Lewis, a claims advisor from the insurance company."

Richard's tone was unusually gentle.

Whenever he was gentle with me, it meant he needed me to cooperate with something.

"Uncle Lewis needs to do a health assessment. Can you cooperate?"

Advisor Lewis crouched down, smiling:

"Sweetie, uncle just needs to ask you a few questions. It'll be quick."

"How are you feeling? Is anything bothering you?"

I glanced at Richard.

His eyes held a warning.

I smiled.

"Pretty good. Just sometimes my chest feels tight."

"Are you taking your medicine? Taking it on time?"

"On time. Three pills a day, not one less."

Richard's lips curved slightly upward.

Diane let out a sigh of relief nearby.

After Lewis finished his notes, he shook Richard's hand.

"Mr. Monroe, rest assured, I'll get the materials organized quickly. If... something unfortunate really happens, I'll expedite the claims process for you."

"Thank you, Lewis."

After seeing Lewis out, Richard patted my head.

"Good job today. As a reward, you can watch an extra half hour of TV tonight."

An extra half hour of TV.

That was my payment for cooperating with their "death rehearsal."

I returned to my room and exported the file from my recording pen.

Filename: "Evidence_007_Insurance_Claims_Pre-Review."

I backed up all files in three copies.

One on the tablet.

One on a USB drive, hidden under the mattress.

One I needed to give to someone I could trust.

But I had no one I could trust.

Classmates? They only knew me as a rich family's daughter, never getting close.

Teachers? Last time I had bruises on my arm, the teacher asked once, and Mom settled it with one phone call.

Relatives? They all worked at Richard's company. No one dared offend him.

I thought about it all night.

The next morning, I saw someone at the neighborhood entrance.

A homeless man.

He sat on the bench across from our complex every day, holding a dirty cat.

Security had chased him away many times, but he always came back.

I walked over.

"Sir, what's your name?"

He looked up, cloudy eyes looking at me.

"Mark Smith."

"Mr. Smith, do you have a phone?"

"No."

"Can you read?"

"...I used to be a teacher."

I paused.

A homeless man who used to be a teacher?

"Mr. Smith, can I come talk to you every day?"

He didn't speak, just nodded gently.

From that day on, I went to see Mark every day after school.

Brought him a bottle of water, a piece of bread.

All saved from my own meals.

Mark used to be a teacher. After his wife died, he ended up on the streets.

We gradually grew close. One day, I pulled out the USB drive from my backpack.

"Mr. Smith, if I die someday, can you give this to the police for me?"

Mark's hands trembled.

"You... what are you saying?"

"My parents bought me five hundred thousand in insurance. If I die, they get the money. So they're not treating me, and they're reducing my medication."

"This USB has all the evidence. If the police determine they deliberately didn't treat me, the insurance company won't pay."

"When they wait for me to die, they won't get five hundred thousand. They'll get a prison cell."

Tears streamed down Mark's face.

"I can't let you die. You're only twelve!"

I crouched beside him, gently patting his back.

I was the one about to die, yet I was comforting a stranger crying for me.

3

The number on the whiteboard changed to 3