Chapter 3
611words
I didn’t dream about arguments or the car that was destined to kill me.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, casting a long, thin strip of light on the floor.
Everything was the same as yesterday, yet somehow nothing felt the same.
No sound came from downstairs.
They were probably tired of arguing, or maybe they finally couldn’t be bothered to waste energy on a family already falling apart.
I didn’t bother trying to figure out if Jack Wilson’s words were true.
The divorce agreement hidden under the mattress was evidence enough.
Someone who knew about that had no reason to lie about my death.
On my way to school, I passed the stationery store at the corner.
As if possessed, I walked in.
I’d always just walked past the colorful notebooks on the shelves.
Today, I picked up a hardcover notebook with a pure black cover and grabbed a smooth black pen.
When I paid, the shopkeeper glanced at me with surprise in her eyes.
Probably because she’d never seen me buy anything so decisively before.
During lunch break, I skipped the cafeteria and walked straight to the abandoned warehouse.
My secret base.
My grave.
Now it had taken on yet another identity.
I opened the brand new notebook. The first page was so white it was almost blinding.
The pen tip hovered above the paper, hesitating to make its mark.
When a person is about to die, what should they think about?
Traveling the world? Climbing Mount Everest?
Those all seemed too distant, like stories from someone else’s life.
In my mind, I only thought of the two orange cats that always lingered near the garbage bins downstairs.
They were skittish, bolting whenever anyone approached.
Holding the pen, I solemnly wrote the first line on the paper.
Things to do before dying.
After a pause, I wrote down the first item:
1. Feed the stray cats downstairs once.
After writing, I stared at that line, suddenly feeling ridiculous.
My dying wish was so damn trivial.
“Just writing one wish?”
That clear voice came from behind, startling me so badly I nearly threw the notebook.
Jack Wilson was standing there—God knows for how long—still wearing that washed-out white shirt, carrying the scent of sun-dried soap.
He wasn’t looking at me; his gaze fell on the notebook in my hand.
I instinctively closed the notebook, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing to do with me.”
He walked to the spot across from me and casually sat down on that broken-legged desk, stretching out his long legs.
“However, if you need an accomplice, I can help.”
“An accomplice?”
“For example, keeping watch for you, or helping carry cat food.”
His tone was casual, as if we weren’t discussing a dying person’s last wishes but planning a weekend hangout.
I looked at him, at those impossibly calm eyes of his.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because…”
He paused, his gaze turning toward the sunlit space outside the warehouse.
“Otherwise I wouldn’t know why I came back.”
He said these words softly, barely above a whisper.
I didn’t press further.
I reopened my notebook and pushed it toward him.
He looked down at that single item on the wish list, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“This is easy.”
“Tomorrow after school. Together.”
I looked at him, my heart feeling as if it was being gently cradled by warm hands.
Since there were only three months left.
Then let’s live properly, just once.
Even if it’s just to feed a cat once.
