When the Number Vanished, So Did My Parents’ Love

I spoke for the first time when I was five. Pointing at the little boy next door, I called out the number floating above his head. “Two.” My parents had no idea what I meant. Two days later, the boy was hit by a car while riding his skateboard in the street. He died instantly. My parents dismissed it as a coincidence. Then my grandma had a stroke and was rushed to the hospital. The doctor told us there was nothing more he could do. “She won’t make it through the night. You should start making arrangements.” I spoke for the second time. Pointing at my grandma, I said, “One hundred eighty.” They brought her home, and to everyone’s surprise, she began to recover. Exactly 180 days later, she passed away peacefully. That was when my family finally realized the numbers I saw were counting down to people’s deaths. Afraid of the trouble my ability might bring, they warned me never to reveal another number. Then, on my sixth birthday, I looked in the mirror and saw one floating above my own head. “1,095.” Exactly three years. My parents’ faces went white. From that day on, I always got the best food and the prettiest clothes. Whenever we went to an amusement park, they even left my little sister behind so they could focus entirely on me. One day, she asked timidly, “Can I come with you too?” My parents gently reassured her. “Be good. Cece doesn’t have much time left. Let Mommy and Daddy spend this time with her.” The three years passed quickly. On my ninth birthday, Dad hired a performer dressed as my favorite character, and Mom kissed my forehead through her tears. I blew out the candles. Then I went to my room, lay down, and obediently closed my eyes. The clock struck midnight. Sobbing drifted in from outside my room. I felt my heartbeat, opened my eyes, and happily ran out. “Mom! Dad! I didn’t die!” They froze. Then, little by little, the warmth drained from their faces.