The Last Breath Chapter 11

Why was there a grave here with my name? Was I already dead? I couldn't understand. My past life, my family, my memories—were they all fake?

The terror of facing death had numbed me, but this mystery trying to deny I'd ever lived struck my heart like a violent electric current. Pain and exhaustion flooded back.

Cold returned to my body, along with the nausea that comes after tremendous shock.

In movies and TV shows, characters often react to major trauma by vomiting. I hadn't believed it before, but now the nausea felt too real not to believe.

The reactions of the trachea and esophagus are beyond human conscious control. I finally began to retch.

Along with the retching, a foul-smelling black gas poured from my mouth and nose, followed by violent coughing.

I sat up, coughing until tears streamed down my face.

When I finally wiped away the tears and mucus, I realized Grandma had stopped.

The sharp nails were gone. The blood-red maw was gone. Standing before me was just the kind old lady from before.

She looked at me with something like guilt on her face, then vanished like a balloon popped by a pin.

At dawn, Mom, Dad, and the villagers finally climbed to the mountaintop. The desolate hill was several hundred meters high—no one could figure out how I'd gotten to the summit in such a short time.

After examination, there were no wounds on my belly. The tooth marks on my mouth had become ordinary bruises that faded within a few days.

The grave with my name was real. Faced with all the inexplicable things he'd personally witnessed, Dad finally revealed what he'd been hiding.

Before me, Mom and Dad had another son who died young and was buried alone on the desolate hill.

Then I was born. And it was because of me that Dad fell into conflict with Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandpa became so angry he fell ill and died. After his death, he was buried beside his beloved grandson.

As for why they fought, Dad still hasn't fully revealed.

I'm a girl. The older generation favored sons over daughters.

After I was born, Grandpa pressured Dad to have another child.

Dad was stubborn. He thought girls were wonderful, and Mom's body wasn't suitable for another pregnancy.

To resist Grandpa, Dad even gave me the same name as that boy—my brother I'd never met.

Grandma had a good attitude. After a few years she let it go, moved in with us, and gave me, her granddaughter, all the love she could give.

But the pain of losing her husband was indelible.

According to Uncle Samuel, Grandma's husband dying because of conflict over having a son versus daughter was her deepest obsession.

That look Grandma gave me before death was her dropping all pretense, seeing me as the enemy who'd killed her husband.

The troubled death release only intensified this obsession.

But on the desolate hill, as the dying breath left and her soul returned, she had a moment of clarity.

Her husband's and grandson's graves made her dead spirit remember her family's love.

Her concern for her son and daughter-in-law, her love for her granddaughter, finally overcame that moment of darkness.

After we left the village and got back on the highway, Dad told me to treat Uncle Samuel's words as nonsense.

I asked how then to explain everything that happened in the old house.

Dad turned his head to curse at a driver cutting him off recklessly, leaving my question hanging.

Later I occasionally dreamed of Grandma. In the dreams she just looked at me and smiled, never saying a word.

I secretly called Uncle Samuel to ask if this meant anything.

Uncle Samuel said it was fine—people who died peacefully don't speak in dreams.