I Do My Homework at the Funeral Home

When I was eight, my mom said I was sick, and my dad dumped me on my uncle, who stood night watch at a funeral home. My classmates avoided me, my teacher said I wasn't normal, and even the neighbors said I brought bad luck. I didn't care. After all, every night, Grandpa Li in the morgue helped me with my homework, the girl in the bathroom stall told me who was crying, and the auntie in the red dress at the corner said someone had cut out her heart and begged me to find it for her.

I'm not good for much, but I can see things other people can't. Ghosts don't hurt me. They help me. Grandpa Li once saved me from disaster, the auntie in red once saved my life, and even Old Zhao, the funeral home's gatekeeper, says I'm hard to kill. It's been three years. My mom is nowhere to be found, and my dad hasn't bothered to ask about me, but I don't have time to feel sad. The person who cut out that heart hasn't been caught, the tree in the ancient ruins keeps growing, and half the names in the ledger are still missing.

My name is Wang Xu. I'm eight years old. The words in my workbook aren't answers. They're the last words of the dead. You ask if I'm scared? I am. But I can't die until I've finished my homework.