Years passed, but nothing truly changed. Houston, the golden child, grew up surrounded by a wall of love and adoration from my father and brothers. He was their solace, their joy. I was their phantom, a shadow they actively avoided. The house staff, sensing the family's disdain, treated me with similar coldness, often leaving me to fend for myself. Many nights, I fell asleep to the dull ache of hunger, a constant reminder of my invisibility.

I grew up, a ghost in my own home, the "curse" that had stolen their happiness. Jered, especially, never missed an opportunity to remind me. "You're a blight, Elia," he' d sneer, his words coating me in a layer of grime. "A stain on this family."

Sometimes, I almost believed him. I'd stare at my reflection, a gaunt, hollow-eyed girl peering back, and wonder why I was still here. Was I too wicked for even hell to claim?

This morning, as I splashed cold water on my face, the mirror confirmed the years of neglect. My hair was a dry, tangled mess, my cheeks sunken. My appearance was a stark contrast to the pampered eldest daughter of a wealthy family. It was the face of a prisoner.

And then I saw it. Hovering above my own head. A vibrant crimson timer, just like Nana Rose's, just like my mother's.

00:00:24:00.

My breath hitched. My own life timer. It was my twenty-first birthday, and my countdown had begun. I tried to smile, a weak, trembling curve that never quite reached my eyes. It was finally here. The end.

I put down the glass of water, my gaze fixed on my reflection. No friends, no one who cared. How would I spend my last day on earth?

I finished getting ready, my movements slow and deliberate, before descending from the attic. My old room, once filled with light and childish dreams, was now Houston's extravagant walk-in closet. The irony wasn't lost on me. I used to watch Houston from my attic window, a small, dark figure peering at his boundless joy in the sunlit garden. He was so innocent, so carefree, basking in the warmth I was denied. I was always in the shadows, a silent observer of the life I couldn't have.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard laughter. Houston's bright, clear laugh. He was still home, along with Fredrick. A rare occurrence on a weekday morning.

Houston, his small hands fumbling, was trying to tie Fredrick's tie. It was comically crooked, but Fredrick watched him with a tenderness I hadn't seen directed at me in years. He knelt, gently stroking Houston's hair. "Don't worry, little brother. We'll fix it together. Ready for school?"

Houston beamed, his tiny hand slipping into Fredrick's much larger one. They made a perfect picture.

A memory flashed. My hands, much younger, struggling with yarn, trying to knit a scarf for Fredrick. It took me days, and it was lopsided and full of dropped stitches. I had presented it to him with trembling hands, hoping for a kind word, a gentle touch.

He had recoiled, his face twisted in disgust. "What is this, Elia? It looks like a cursed rag. Get that away from me. It'll bring bad luck."

I had given the misshapen scarf to our old dog, hoping it would at least make her bed a little softer, a little warmer. The next morning, I found it in the trash, shredded beyond repair. I fished out the tattered pieces, washed them, and hid them in a small box, never to be seen again. My heart, then, was just as broken as the threads of that scarf.

The front door opened, a sliver of sunlight briefly illuminating the hall. Fredrick and Houston were about to leave. This was it. My last chance.

"Fredrick? Houston?" My voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible.

They both turned, their expressions a study in contrasts. Houston's eyes lit up. "Elia!" he chirped, a genuine smile gracing his innocent face.

Fredrick's expression darkened, a familiar storm cloud gathering in his eyes. He stopped Houston, pulling him slightly behind him, a protective instinct that stung more than any blow. He opened his mouth, then closed it, glancing at Houston.

"Could we... could we have dinner tonight?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Just one meal, all of us together? For my birthday?"

Houston's face brightened. "Yes! A birthday dinner! Can we, Fredrick?"

Fredrick's voice, cold and sharp, sliced through the air. "No, we can't."

Houston's happy expression crumbled. "Why not?" he asked, his voice full of genuine confusion.

My own heart echoed his question. Why not?

Fredrick offered a flimsy excuse about a prior engagement, a business dinner. Houston, under Fredrick's stern gaze, remembered some earlier "plans." "Oh, right! We promised to play my new video game tonight, didn't we, Fredrick?" He looked at me apologetically. "Maybe tomorrow, Elia?"

A bitter taste filled my mouth. Tomorrow. The word was a cruel jest. I knew there would be no tomorrow for me. But I nodded anyway, a ghost of a smile on my lips. "Of course, Houston. Tomorrow."

I watched them go, my heart a heavy stone in my chest. Fredrick paused at the door, his eyes, sharp as daggers, piercing me. "Stay away from Houston, Elia," he warned, his voice low and menacing. "Don't even think about hurting him. Or you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

The fleeting joy I'd felt at Houston's innocent smile vanished, replaced by a cold dread that seeped into my bones. It felt like I'd been drenched in icy water. They saw me as a monster, a murderer, a harbinger of ill luck. My heart ached, a dull, constant throb that mirrored the emptiness in my stomach.

My stomach growled, a painful reminder of my hunger. I hadn't eaten properly in days. I walked to the kitchen, my movements slow and heavy. The kitchen, usually bustling, was silent. No one was there. The counters were clean, too clean.

Only half a loaf of stale bread remained on the counter, forgotten. And a handful of cashews in an open bag. I grabbed them, tearing off a piece of the dry bread, chewing slowly. It did little to appease the gnawing hunger.

As I ate, Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, walked in. She saw me, and her lips thinned. Her eyes rolled, a clear message of disgust. "Oh, Elia," she said, feigning surprise, "did you eat that old bread? It was meant for the garbage. The good breakfast was for the masters, of course." She sniffed, her nose wrinkled. "I could make you something, I suppose, if you insist."

I saw the impatience in her eyes, the barely concealed irritation. "No, thank you," I said, my voice barely a whisper. The sharp twist in my stomach intensified. I turned and went back up to the attic. There was no place for me here, not even in the kitchen. Not even the staff saw me as human. I was worse than garbage.

The pain radiated through my stomach, making my hands tremble. I fumbled for the small bottle of painkillers I kept hidden. I swallowed two, dry, waiting for the dull ache to subside. Slowly, the sharp edges of the pain softened.

I changed into my cleanest dress, a faded blue cotton, and tried to brush my unruly hair. I applied a thin layer of makeup, hoping to hide the shadows under my eyes, to look less like the ghost I felt I was. Then I left the house.

I had only one day left. I couldn't just waste it.

My first stop was a small funeral parlor. I couldn't order a custom urn, not with only twenty-four hours left. So I picked the prettiest one from the display, a simple ceramic pot with a delicate floral pattern. This would be my home, my final resting place.

I walked out of the shop, clutching the urn, acutely aware of the strange glances people threw my way. A young woman, holding an urn, on a weekday afternoon. They must have thought I was mad. I ignored them, my gaze fixed on my next destination.

I walked past Fredrick's elite corporate building, a towering monument to his ambition. My phone was still silent. No messages. No missed calls. He hadn't bothered to check his social media. He hadn't even seen my follow request. Two hours had passed since I'd left the message.

I didn't want to die out here. I wanted to be home, in the only place I knew, even if it was a cold attic. I turned and walked back, my footsteps echoing the emptiness inside me.

The house was silent when I returned. Mrs. Davies was out shopping. I was truly alone. I went to the kitchen and started cooking. My last meal. My last desperate attempt. I cooked everything I knew how to make, dishes I remembered my mother making, dishes I thought my brothers might like.

Each splash of oil, each sizzle, was a prayer. A desperate, silent plea for them to come home. To sit with me, just once. Just to say goodbye.

The clock above my head was relentless. It had shrunk to 00:00:03:00. Three hours.

I sat at the dining table, staring at the feast I had prepared. My hand trembled, a small burn mark on my wrist from where hot oil had splattered. The pain was still there, a vivid pulse against my skin, but it was overshadowed by a strange, frantic excitement. I knew it was abnormal, this surge of hope, but I couldn't help it. My heart pounded in my chest.

Two hours.

I picked up the phone, my fingers fumbling with the keys. I scrolled to Fredrick's number. My eldest brother. The one who had pulled me out of the tool shed all those years ago. The one who had, in his own cold way, saved me.

I dialed. The line rang once, twice, then a click.

"Fredrick?" I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. "Please, just come home. Celebrate with me. Please. I... I'm going to die tonight."

The silence on the other end was a heavy shroud, far more suffocating than the empty grave I had prepared for myself. My knuckles were white as I gripped the phone, the burn on my hand throbbing in sync with my racing heart. Time seemed to stretch, suspended between my desperate plea and his unspoken judgment.

I looked at the table, laden with food. Food I had cooked with the last vestiges of my strength. Steam rose from the dishes, evaporating into the vast, empty dining room. A dying girl, a table full of food, and an empty house. This house had never really been a home.

I imagined Fredrick, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He probably thought I was manipulative, seeking attention. But maybe, just maybe, the word "die" would pierce through his indifference, if only for a second.

A spark of hope ignited in my chest, a desperate, flickering flame. Come home, Fredrick. Please. Just so I can leave this world with a memory not tainted by hatred. Just so I can see a face that isn't filled with contempt when I close my eyes for the last time.

The grandfather clock in the hall ticked, each second a hammer blow, chipping away at my fragile composure. One hour.

"Fredrick?" I whispered again, my voice thin, broken by eighteen years of neglect. "Please. Don't let me die alone." My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for release.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for release. The words, "I'm going to die tonight," hung in the air, a final, desperate plea. I had thought I would face death with quiet resignation, but now, a frantic pulse of life surged through me. A sudden, aching desire to see more, to experience anything beyond this suffocating existence.

Fredrick didn't speak. The silence on the line was a vast, cold ocean, drowning me. I could hear my own ragged breathing, sharp and loud in the oppressive stillness.

Then, he spoke. His voice, when it came, was a heavy stone, plummeting my already fragile heart into the abyss. "Elia," he said, his tone laced with a chilling disdain. "Are you really so desperate for attention that you'd stoop to such pathetic lies?"

My breath hitched. He thought I was lying. Even now, at the very end.

"You've always been a manipulative drama queen," he continued, his voice hardening. "You won't trick us again. Not after what you did to mother, to grandfather."

A silent scream tore through me. It wasn't my fault! But no sound passed my lips. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging. I felt like a puppet, my strings being cut one by one.

"Please, Fredrick," I sobbed, my voice raw and broken. "Just one last time. Please."

A sharp click. The line went dead. I vaguely heard Houston's joyful voice calling Fredrick's name in the background before the connection vanished entirely. My frantic hope dissolved, replaced by a crushing emptiness.

I slumped back into the chair, clutching the phone, my gaze fixed on the empty place settings. They wouldn't come. They never did. I remembered how they would dote on Houston, fulfilling his every whim, showering him with affection. I tried to imagine, just for a moment, that I was Houston, that they loved me. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my lips, ending in a choked sob.

I'm going crazy, I thought, a desperate, hollow laugh echoing in the silent room. My laughter grew, then twisted into an agonizing wail, a sound ripped from the deepest parts of my soul.

The seconds bled into minutes, the minutes into an eternity. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each beat a stark reminder of their absence. No one came. I waited, a statue of despair, until the clock hands crept towards midnight.

00:00:03:00. Three minutes.

My life, laid bare, flashed before my eyes. It was simple, unremarkable. Nothing worth remembering, really. A life that felt like a tragedy from the moment I was born.

The minutes turned to seconds. I collapsed onto the table, my head resting amidst the cold, untouched dishes. The urn and the photograph I' d taken that afternoon lay beside me.

The countdown hit zero.

A sudden, profound stillness descended. The air grew heavy, thick with silence. My own frantic breathing ceased.

Then, I heard it. The faint click of the doorknob. Someone was coming.

They were too late.

A profound, encompassing darkness enveloped me. There was no anger, no sadness, just a deep, all-consuming peace. The connection between my mind and body severed, like a thread snipped by an invisible scissor. The pain, the hunger, the cold – they vanished instantly, replaced by a weightless sensation of absolute freedom.

My eyes, though open, stared blankly at the wooden table. The intricate grain of the wood, once so clear, faded into obscurity. The world of the living receded, leaving me stranded on the shores of eternity. I tried to turn my head towards the door, to glimpse who had finally come, but the command dissolved into nothingness.

Nothing mattered anymore. The family dinner, the explanations, the begging for love – it was all over. The clock had run out. My life' s ledger was closed. My soul, light as a feather, detached from my body.