When I died with a smile before my brother, he was so devastated he nearly vomited blood.
But for all these twenty-one years,
there hadn't been a single day when he didn't hope I'd die.
It was all because, on my fifth birthday, I wished my parents would come home from their business trip to celebrate with me.
On their overnight drive back, they were in a car accident and both died.
From then on, my brother resented and hated me.
He not only let our cousin steal my work, but also pressured my landlord into kicking me out.
All he had ever wanted was for me to die a miserable death.
But when he finally got his wish,
why did he cry and beg me to come back, then ask me to call him "big brother" one more time?
