Miranda's Confession

They say everyone in the South District wants a child like Miranda, but I think that's not true.

At least, my mother didn't think so.

Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am the Miranda they speak of.

From the time I can remember, my mother has been ill, bedridden for as long as I can recall.

We relied on each other, living off free relief food, though sometimes I would bring home some "free" necessities from the supermarket. I urged her to see a doctor, but she never went, convinced that no doctor could cure her illness.

You ask about my father?

That word was taboo when I was a child. He was the root of our miserable life.

I've heard my mother curse him countless times, and I've also heard her dream of him with love and longing, though she vehemently denied it, saying I must have heard wrong.

But I don't think I did. After all, without love, how could there be hatred? The deeper the hatred, the deeper the love.

I think my mother hated me. There is a saying, "love me, love my dog." I think hate should be the same. After all, I carry half the blood of that heartless man.

My mother's feelings for me were complex: sometimes she would beat me for minor mistakes, but other times she would cry and apologize, saying she was sorry.

Sometimes she treated me well, and other times she wished I were dead. Most of the time, she just talked about the "heartless man" John and what he did to us—my mother forbade me from calling him father. She told me to seek revenge on him.

I thought she might have been a bit out of her mind at that time. John was a wealthy businessman, and I was just a struggling, near-homeless person fighting to fill my stomach. How could I possibly take revenge? I didn't even have money for a handgun. But my mother was certain that I would achieve it.

As I grew older, my mother's illness worsened. I always thought it was the constant pain that aged her prematurely—when I took her to the doctor, the doctor even mistook her for my grandmother, though she was only in her thirties.

Strangely, the doctor ran many tests, and the reports showed she was healthy, with no illnesses, so he refused to prescribe any painkillers. To make her more comfortable, I spent most of my savings buying painkillers on the black market.

By the time I got home with the painkillers, she had already died. I didn't cry; I was even somewhat relieved that her suffering had ended. I only felt regret that the money I spent on the drugs went to waste since she never got to take them.

The only memory I have of my mother before her death is her withered hand, clutching the bedclothes tightly, evidently in pain. I shouldn't have chosen to run home to save money instead of taking the bus. If I had arrived home sooner, perhaps her suffering could have been lessened, and she might have been a little more comfortable before she died.

I used my last money to bury my mother and then left the South District with Vivian to make a living. Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce Vivian. She was once my best friend. Yes, once. Because later she died.

Vivian was a kind-hearted, somewhat foolish person. Such people are destined not to stay long in this world full of suffering and torment.

I was bullied throughout my childhood because I was poor, because I did well in school, and because I stole money from others. Vivian used to stand in front of me to stop the bullying, claiming I was slandered for stealing money.

In truth, she never knew that what they said was true. Since then, the object of bullying shifted from just me to both of us.

Vivian was really a fool, not knowing how to resist, only crying. She said I was her saving angel. She got it wrong; she was my angel.

I digress.

After Vivian and I left the South District, we worked at a restaurant under the table, earning a meager salary since we were not yet adults.

We saved our money together, and every time we got paid, Vivian would carefully divide the money into several parts: rent, living expenses, savings, and a fund to celebrate my eighteenth birthday—she had learned that I had never had a birthday party and decided to celebrate it for me, like a normal person, buying a birthday cake and a gift. But I told her I didn't know when I was born, and she said we would celebrate together, making it our birthday.

"Let me count how much more we need for our birthday fund," she said as she counted the money. Each time she counted, her eyes grew brighter.

At first, I used to laugh at her, thinking such a small amount of money was not worth counting. She seriously told me that it was a countdown to our birthday, a hope for life. Our birthday—what a beautiful term. I started to look forward to that day.

The day Vivian died was supposed to be the day we celebrated our birthday. I found an excuse to leave work early. I had finally saved enough money to buy her the necklace she had admired many times but never bought. But when I came home, I found the room empty, and eventually, I discovered Vivian lying in a pool of blood in a dirty alley.

"I...I finally...waited for you, Miranda."

Vivian seemed to use all her strength to speak.

"Hold on, the ambulance is coming. I tried to stop the bleeding, but Vivian's wounds were too severe to control."

"H-happy..." Vivian's hand reached towards my face, as if trying to wipe my tears, but she couldn't. Her hand fell heavily, and her breathing ceased.

Until I turned eighteen, no one had ever celebrated my birthday.

"Hi," a strangely dressed dwarf suddenly appeared in front of me in a dead-end alley. I hadn't heard any footsteps before.

At that moment, I was desperate, and I saw this sudden apparition as a lifeline. "Please, save Vivian! I'm willing to give everything!"

The dwarf ignored me and said to himself, "I can help you get revenge on John."

Revenge?

Revenge!

My mind suddenly recalled my mother's withered hand, gripping me, saying we must get revenge. Her words were rooted in my mind like a towering tree. If I were a robot, the concept of revenge would be as inviolable to me as the Three Laws of Robotics are to robots; it was almost becoming my instinct.

"Can you help me save Vivian?"

"No, she is already dead."

"Then how will you help me take revenge?"

"John will come looking for you every day from now on. From now on, you will be Vivian, John's long-lost twin daughter, and the dead person is Miranda."

From that day on, I had a face like Vivian's, and my name changed. Next time you see me, please call me Emile.

Nova and Steve's Wedding

"Nova, congratulations!" As Nova's best friend, Emma attended her wedding as a bridesmaid.

After the wedding, Emma gave Nova a few-month-old golden retriever puppy.

"I remember you already gave a gift."

"Yes, but as your best friend, isn't it okay to give two gifts?"

"Of course. I'm really lucky to have a friend like you. How did you know I love golden retrievers? I don't think I ever told you."

"I have mind-reading abilities." Emma winked mischievously.

"Nova, let's name this puppy."

"Let's call him Sunny," Nova said as she petted Sunny, "because he's warm like sunshine."