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.

Elia' s POV:

My soul detached from my body, a strange lightness replacing the suffocating weight I had carried for so long. I floated above my lifeless form, confused. Why could I still see everything? Then the realization hit me, cold and stark: I was dead.

The creak of the front door opening drew my attention. A flicker of something, a desperate, phantom hope, ignited in my ethereal chest. Had they come? Had my brothers, after all this time, finally returned?

But it wasn't them. It was Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, her arms laden with grocery bags. My last, lingering hope, a pathetic ember, flickered and died. They hadn't come. They still hadn't come.

Mrs. Davies stepped into the dining room, her eyes widening in horror as she saw me, slumped over the table. The neatly arranged dinner, the urn, the photograph – the scene must have been shocking. She dropped her bags with a thud, a gasp escaping her lips.

Her eyes darted from my still form to the polished urn, then to the smiling photograph. A strange pause, a flicker of calculation in her eyes. I saw her hesitate, her breath held.

Then, slowly, cautiously, she approached my body. Her hand, trembling slightly, reached out, her fingers hovering just beneath my nose. No breath. No warmth.

Her face drained of color. A guttural scream tore from her throat, raw and terrifying. She stumbled back, fumbling for her phone. Her voice, when she spoke, was a frantic, broken whisper. "There's... there's a body! She's... she's dead!" She rattled off the address, her voice shaking.

She hung up, pressing a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at me. Then she turned to leave, but stopped. A conflicted expression crossed her face. After a brief pause, she dialed again.

"Mr. Fredrick!" she cried, her voice still trembling.

Fredrick's voice, even through the tiny speaker, was impatient, clipped. I imagined his irritated frown, annoyed at being disturbed, perhaps thinking this was another one of my "stunts."

"It's... it's Elia, sir," Mrs. Davies stammered, her voice cracking. She clung to the phone, her knuckles white. She took a step back, as if my death was contagious. "She's... she's dead, sir. Cold. No breath. I've called the ambulance." Her voice dissolved into hysterical sobs. "She's really dead, Mr. Fredrick!"

A chilling silence descended on the other end of the line, heavier than the one in the room. The reality, like an avalanche, crashed down on him. I felt a strange flicker of satisfaction in my spectral form.

His voice, when it returned, was different. The impatience was gone, replaced by a dangerous, low rumble of disbelief. "If you're lying, Mrs. Davies..." he began, a silent threat hanging in the air.

"No! No, sir!" she wailed, "I swear! Please, come home! The police are coming!"

I watched as Fredrick hung up, the silence that followed now charged with a frantic energy. My soul floated, observing, for the first time free of fear.

Red and blue lights flashed against the dining room walls, painting my pale, lifeless face in garish hues. Strangers in uniforms rushed in, their movements efficient and professional. They touched my cold skin, checked for a pulse that wasn't there, and shook their heads. They treated my body with more gentleness than my family had shown me in my entire life.

One of them spotted the urn and the photograph on the table. He sighed, a sound filled with pure, unadulterated pity. It echoed, strangely, in my nascent spiritual realm. I found it odd. It seemed I had finally found basic human decency in death, something I had craved my entire life.