After the Countdown
When I was born, the nurse handed me over to my parents, and the smiles on their faces instantly vanished.
Hovering over their son's smooth head was a line of numbers that no one else could see.
6570 days.
It was exactly 18 years. Not a day more, not a day less.
The nurse thought they were just nervous first-time parents, but my parents knew the truth. That number was my lifespan.
While everyone else in the delivery room was celebrating a new life, my parents were staring at my death.
For the next 18 years, I was the most precious person in the family.
No matter how poor we were, the eggs were always mine, the new clothes were always mine, and the meat was always mine.
My younger sister could only look on enviously. My parents often told her, "Let your brother have it. He doesn't have much time left."
I was well-behaved from a young age, never causing trouble, quietly waiting to die.
On my 18th birthday, I blew out the candles and said a sincere goodbye to the world.
The next day, my parents and sister, dressed in black clothes, walked into my room with swollen eyes.
I rubbed my eyes, smiled at them, and said, "Good morning."
The air froze.
The sadness on their faces slowly turned into astonishment, then coldness.