After finishing my class, I gathered my books to leave.

It was a short walk back to the dorm. Suddenly, my head spun violently. Before I could react, I stumbled and tumbled down the stairs.

I lay on the ground for a long time before I could limp to the infirmary.

The school doctor examined me, his brow deeply furrowed. I didn't take it seriously. "Probably just low blood sugar from the heavy workload. I'll pay attention to my diet and rest."

The school doctor ordered a whole battery of tests and insisted I go to a major hospital for a full examination.

Seeing his serious expression, I skipped my afternoon classes, hailed a cab, and headed to the city hospital.

Getting the tests done took the whole afternoon, including a brain CT and other checks.

Waiting for the results took a week.

A week later, standing outside a hospital clinic door, clutching a thick stack of reports, my hands were shaking. Behind the dense, incomprehensible medical terms was a small note: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.

The doctor said many things; I didn't register a single word.

Finally, I searched online. When the words "Lou Gehrig's disease" appeared, I was shocked.

How could such a rare disease have anything to do with me?

I had one year left until graduation, the top student in the Fine Arts department.

Soon, I was supposed to hold my own solo exhibition.

Holding the reports, I walked slowly home, gradually digesting this fact.

I was destined to die.

Before dying, I could at least donate my body to science.

After all, I had once dreamed of becoming a doctor, but due to certain events, I ended up in art school instead.

After signing the body donation consent form, only the family consent section remained blank.

My hand holding the pen tightened, then slowly relaxed after a long while.

As dusk fell, I finally took out my phone and dialed the number I hadn't called in five years.

The phone rang many times without an answer. On my third call, just as I was about to hang up for the last time—he answered.

"Alan, could you sign my body donation consent form?"

I stated my purpose, but there was no sound from the other end.

I even wondered if the call hadn't connected properly, or if he hadn't heard.

Just as I was about to repeat myself, an impatient voice came through: "Stop bothering me."

My eyes stung.

Before I could say anything else, the line went dead.

So, even after five years of silence, his resentment towards me hadn't lessened at all.

The doctor told me ALS was difficult to cure; at best, medicine could control the symptoms, but ultimately, all organ functions would fail.

I didn't know which day I would collapse on the street.

Or which morning I’d wake up unable to walk, or even grasp things.

Breathing, even speaking, would become difficult.

I decided to use whatever time I had left to settle all my affairs, then wait quietly for death.

I booked a flight for that night and flew straight to Alan's city.

I’d been out of touch with him for too long, and I’d never been to his city. It took me forever to find his company.

Unsurprisingly, the security guards stopped me at the entrance.

"I need to see Alan. I'm his niece."

The guard wouldn't let me in. "Never heard of President Dale having a niece. What kind of place do you think this is? No appointment, no entry."

I pleaded politely, "I really am his niece. I won't take long. Five minutes, tops, and I'll be out."

The guard didn't believe me and even started shoving me, trying to push me away.

I refused; I had to see Alan.

Amid the argument, a car pulled up, and the window rolled down.

I heard a man's derisive snort, followed by his voice: "You certainly have some nerve."

My heart dropped.

He felt somewhat unfamiliar after so many years, but the voice was still etched in my memory.

Instinctively, I felt guilty, ashamed before him.

I fought the urge to run, forcing myself to look at him calmly.

Five years had changed Alan from the twenty-year-old youth he once was. That young man who had begged on the phone to see my sister Julia one last time.

Technically, Alan was a boy my elderly grandmother adopted. He grew up with me and my sister Julia.

My parents died in a car crash; Grandma was heartbroken.

That's when she adopted Alan.

Alan and Julia grew up together. I once thought my uncle would become my brother-in-law.

The window rolled up, and the Cayenne started to drive away before I snapped out of it.

"I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need you to sign this."

Legally, he was now my only relative.

He took the file, flipping to the last page.

I saw his signing hand pause slightly before he said indifferently, "Then add another clause: notify me when you're actually dead and it's time for the funeral."

After a long moment, I heard my own voice: "Okay."

I carefully folded the signed consent form and put it away. At least my failing body could still be of some use.

Autumn wind swept ginkgo leaves against the glass window, like someone gently knocking.

The staff member verifying the information asked repeatedly: "Miss Jane Frost, are you certain you wish to donate all organs and your entire body? Including the corneas?"

I nodded, fingering the half-eaten apple pie in my pocket.

I’d bought it yesterday from an old shop near campus. Grandma used to say apple pie should be eaten with warm tea, but now I could barely stand long enough to finish a cup.

"Under 'Family Member,' Alan Dale is listed as your legal guardian?" The staff pointed at the signature line. "We need proof of the adoption relationship, or someone else must sign."

"My family... I have no other relatives left."

"Then I'm afraid it's not possible. Adoption documentation must be provided."

My hand froze mid-air.

Grandma passed when I was sixteen; Alan had just turned twenty. The court granted him guardianship over Julia and me.

Later, after Julia's "accident," I fled that home overnight, leaving all my documents behind.

"I... I'll get it reissued."

After leaving, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A message from my advisor, asking how my exhibition pieces were coming along.

The Fine Arts department graduation show was scheduled in three months, the day I’d most looked forward to.

I crouched by the roadside, coughing violently, streaks of blood seeping between my fingers.

The wind rustled the sketch paper in my backpack – my new piece, Winter Graveyard. The tombstone bore no name, only a bouquet of white roses that never wilted.

Back in the dorm, my roommate was packing. "Jane, did you hear? Dale Group is sponsoring our grad show! Rumor has it President Dale himself will attend the opening."

My hand gripping the painting frame tightened suddenly, a wood splinter digging into my palm.

Alan Dale.

That name was like a rusted needle buried deep in my heart, shifting even slightly caused agonizing pain.

I went back to Alan's company.

The receptionist eyed me like I was a beggar as she made the call. Probably no one believed this shabbily dressed girl, swaying as she walked, could know the lofty President Dale.

The TV in the waiting area played financial news. Alan stood at a press conference in a tailored suit, a meticulously made-up woman beside him – Anna.

Julia's former best friend, now Alan's publicly acknowledged fiancée.

"Dale Group partners with the European Art Foundation to establish the country's first ALS art therapy center..."

On screen, Alan leaned slightly, brushing a stray hair from Anna's face, a gesture as natural as if rehearsed a thousand times.

Reporters' flashes erupted; the ticker scrolled "Match Made in Heaven."

I suddenly remembered that stormy night five years ago, Alan kneeling in the hospital corridor, clutching my ankle, begging: "Let me see her one last time, just once..."

He was soaked, a bloody gash on his forehead from banging against the wall.

I shook him off, my voice colder than hail: "She never loved you. She was on a date with someone else when the crash happened. Did you think she was rushing back to see you?"

"Miss Frost, President Dale will see you now."

The receptionist's voice pulled me back. I clenched the copy of Grandma's adoption papers in my pocket, nails digging deep.

The CEO's office was vast, cold as an icebox.

Alan sat by the floor-to-ceiling window reviewing documents. Sunlight cut sharp lines across his profile.

Five years had honed him into a sharp blade, its scabbard studded with diamonds, unable to hide the coldness within.

"What now?" He didn't look up; his pen scratched harshly across the paper.

I placed the proof on his desk. "Need your signature again."

He glanced at the paper and suddenly laughed. "Jane, do you think I have nothing better to do?"

My fingertips began to tingle – a warning sign of an attack. I gripped the desk edge, slowly crouching down, hearing his voice from above: "When you ran off with the money Grandma left, did you think you'd need my signature then?"

"That money..." I bit back, wanting to say Julia had secretly transferred it, but a violent coughing fit cut me off.

He stepped back, disgusted as I coughed blood onto the carpet. "Disgusting."

The office door opened. Anna walked in, dressed in Chanel, covering her mouth dramatically when she saw me. "Oh! Jane? It's been ages! What happened to you?"

She linked her arm intimately with Alan's, her crimson nails like blood. "Alan, really, Jane is after all your..."

"Shut up." Alan shook her off, his gaze icy. "Who said you could come in?"

Anna's face paled, but she forced a smile. "I just heard Jane was here. Remembering how close we all used to be..."

Used to be?

Her and Julia – both repulsive.

Senior year, Julia stole my competition design sketches.

At the awards ceremony, Julia wore the dress I designed, claiming it was our "shared vision."

"I have to go." I grabbed the document to leave, but Alan stopped me.

"I'll be there for the graduation show." He leaned against the desk, twirling his pen. "I want to see what you've learned in five years, besides playing the victim."

On the way back to campus, I bought the cheapest voice recorder I could find.

The doctor said my memory was faltering; sometimes I'd suddenly forget who I was or what I was doing.

Afraid I might not make it to the show, I decided to record everything I wanted to say.

The bulletin board by the dorm displayed the grad show poster. My name was first.

Beside it was the sponsor's logo – Dale Group – glaringly prominent.

The fluorescent lights in the studio hummed. I stared at the patch of still-wet gray-blue on the canvas, my knuckles white with effort.

The helplessness from ALS was like a tide; every lift of my arm felt like fighting an ocean.

On the easel was the draft of Winter Graveyard. I'd added a small figure beside the tombstone, wearing faded school clothes, carrying an old sketchbook – it was me, five years ago.

"Jane, your hand is shaking badly. Take a break." My junior, Cathy, placed a hot cocoa on the paint table beside me.

I shook my head, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.

I had no time to spare.

Last night, I fumbled in the dark for a dropped water glass. My fingers trembled uselessly in the air for ten solid minutes. That utter loss of control was more terrifying than death.

"This painting..." Cathy cautiously studied the canvas. "That blurry figure beside it is..."

"My sister." I dipped my brush in titanium white, dotting small daisies before the tombstone. "Her favorite when she was alive."

Julia.

The name was like shards of glass hidden between teeth, cutting my mouth bloody at the mere mention.

She was Grandma's pride, the moonlight cradled in Alan's hands.

I was always the dust living in her shadow.

During the city-wide art exams senior year, she stood on the podium holding my painting, Old Church in Morning Fog, which I'd labored over for three sleepless nights. She told the cameras, "This piece was a collaboration with my sister, but the main concept was mine."

Alan watched her from below, his gaze melting with tenderness.

I stood at the back of the crowd, clutching the torn scraps of my drafts, a complete joke.

"Jane, was your sister... very talented?" Cathy's voice pulled me back. "I heard an old professor mention a senior named Julia five years ago, almost got a full scholarship to Paris Fine Arts... such a shame..."

"Shame she died." I stabbed my brush into the paint box. Titanium white splattered onto the deep blue canvas like sudden tear stains.

Only the hum of the lights remained. I stared at Julia's blurred silhouette on the canvas and suddenly laughed.

Alan, you see? Even her death, you blame on me.