Chapter 2

We lived in a small town where there were no secrets.

Everyone's business became everyone's gossip.

So it didn't take long before everyone knew: Damian was out of prison. He was a murderer. Not only morally corrupt, but he'd also brought death to his own parents. And his little sister Claire had lost both parents at such a young age and now had to live with her killer brother.

When I returned to school, my homeroom teacher gave me a pointed look during roll call. "Claire, given your family's special circumstances, if you need anything, talk to me."

The whole class turned to stare.

During break, boys crowded around my desk, smirking:

"Claire, did your brother really kill someone?"

"How'd he do it? With a knife or a rope?"

"Are you gonna kill people too?"

I buried my face in my arms, pretending not to hear.

Walking home from school, girls from another class pointed at me. "That's her. Her brother's been to prison."

"Stay away from her. A murderer's sister can't be any good either."

I ran home and threw my backpack on the floor.

Damian was in the kitchen making noodles, wearing Mom's old apron, clumsily frying an egg.

"You're home, Claire?" He turned around, forcing a smile. "Dinner's almost ready."

Looking at his face—so similar to Dad's—I suddenly exploded:

"Why did you come back?! Why didn't you just die in prison?! Do you know everyone's laughing at me?! Saying I'm a murderer's sister!"

The pot of water boiled, steam obscuring his face.

He turned off the stove, his back to me, shoulders trembling slightly.

After a long time, he finally said:

"...I'm sorry."

That night, I heard him crying in the living room—suppressed, like a wounded animal whimpering.

But I didn't go out there.

I hugged Mom's pillow and told myself: I hate him.

I had no obligation to understand or feel sorry for him.

If it weren't for him, my mom and dad wouldn't have died in that accident.

If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be pointed at every single day.

He was someone who'd only survived because of my cord blood, yet he "repaid" that debt by turning my life into chaos.

I was sick of him.

I hated him.

Damian started working.

During the day he worked construction, at night he helped at the market stalls, and late at night he took on odd jobs assembling cardboard boxes.

Probably because of the major surgery he'd had, his health was poor. He coughed constantly and always looked pale.

But he spent every penny he earned on me: new backpack, new clothes, even books I mentioned in passing.

I had to admit, Damian took good care of me.

But my environment was still a swamp.

In eighth grade, I ranked first in my year.

For parent-teacher night, he borrowed a nicer shirt and combed his hair neatly.

But the moment he walked into the classroom, the whispers started.

"That's Claire's brother?"

"He looks pretty harmless. Hard to imagine..."

"Murderers don't have it written on their faces."

Throughout the whole meeting, he kept his head down, fingers gripping his knees tightly.

On the way home, I followed behind him, watching his slightly hunched back, and suddenly said:

"Let's move away."

He stopped but didn't turn around.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere," I said. "Everyone here knows you're a murderer anyway."

He was silent for a long time.

"Okay."

A month later, we moved to a city two hundred miles away.

Damian used all our savings to rent a tiny studio apartment. We slept in bunk beds.

He found work at an electronics factory, working rotating shifts on the assembly line.

The night we moved in, I lay on the unfamiliar top bunk, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

"Hey," I suddenly spoke.

Rustling came from the lower bunk. "Yeah?"

"Why did you go to prison?"

Silence.

Long, suffocating silence.

Just when I thought he wouldn't answer, he said quietly:

"...I did something wrong."

"What wrong thing?"

"Something very bad," his voice was soft as a sigh. "Claire, don't ask anymore."

"Just know that I'm sorry—sorry to you, sorry to Mom and Dad...that's enough."

I turned to face the wall.

Always like this.

Forever like this.

I was never entitled to know the truth.