A Life Without Sunlight

The day my parents divorced, the rain wouldn’t stop.

Two agreements sat on the table. One meant staying in the old Eastwood District with my gambling-addicted father, Alexander Clark, drowning in debt. The other meant leaving for Silverstrand Coast with my mother, Charlotte Hayes, who was remarrying into wealth.

In my last life, my younger brother, Mathias Clark, cried and clung to Mom while I quietly packed my things and chose to stay with Dad.

Later, he quit gambling and struck it rich during a redevelopment boom. He poured everything into raising me right. Meanwhile, Mathias was trapped in his stepfather’s house—isolated, controlled, never allowed outside—until depression took his life.

But this time, everything changed.

Mathias snatched the cigarette from Dad’s hand and hugged him tightly, refusing to let go.

"Tyler, I feel bad for Dad. You go enjoy the good life over there. I’ll stay and take care of him for you."

Dad froze for a moment, then smiled with relief and patted his shoulder.

I said nothing. I simply picked up the train ticket to the coast.

What he didn’t know was that…

In my last life, the reason Dad was able to quit gambling was because I had a brain tumor. I worked myself to the brink of coughing up blood just to repay his debts.

I traded my life… for his redemption.

"Then, I’m leaving." I hoisted up my woven sack.

"Go on, get lost. Go find that gold-digging mother of yours." Dad waved his hand dismissively, like he was shooing away a fly.

Mathias Clark hid behind him, pulling faces at me. His expression was smug, almost triumphant. "Don’t come crawling back later, begging me for money, Ty."

Without saying a word, I smiled and turned to walk into the rain. I hunched my shoulders slightly. The cold seeped in so deep it felt like it was coming from inside my bones.

Honestly, it didn’t matter where I went. I just wanted somewhere quiet, somewhere I could endure whatever time I had left.

No more listening to debt collectors pounding on the door for a gambling addict. No more breathing in that nauseating stench of cheap cigarettes.

Mom’s black Mercedes was parked at the mouth of Maple Alley. The window rolled down, revealing her well-maintained face. She frowned as she looked at me, drenched from head to toe, a trace of disgust flickering in her eyes.

"What happened to you? Get in already. Don’t dirty the car."

I opened the back door and was about to get in.

"Put that bag in the trunk." She pointed at the woven sack in my hand. "It’s filthy. Who knows what kind of bacteria are on it?"

I paused for a moment, but in the end, I still obeyed. I closed the door, walked to the back, and placed the bag in the trunk.

When I got in again, I curled into the corner, careful not to touch the leather seats. The heat in the car was turned up high, but I still felt cold.

"Tyler, when we get there, behave yourself." Mom drove while glancing at me through the rearview mirror. "Jonathan doesn’t like noise. Stay in your room when you have nothing to do.

"Don’t smack your lips when you eat. Don’t drag your feet when you walk. And don’t mention your dad. It’s bad luck."

I watched the rain blur past the window and nodded. "Got it."

Something in my head stabbed again. My vision went dark for a split second. I clenched my teeth and forced myself through the wave of dizziness.

"What’s wrong?" Mom asked, her tone edged with impatience.

"Nothing. Motion sickness."

"Dramatic." She let out a cold snort. "Just like your father. A grown man who can’t handle a little discomfort."

I closed my eyes and swallowed the metallic taste rising in my throat. In my next life, I won’t come back.

The drive lasted five hours. By the time we reached Crestview Heights halfway up the mountain, night had completely fallen. The place was brightly lit, yet eerily silent.

"We’re here." Mom parked the car, touched up her lipstick, and took a deep breath. She was adjusting herself from the sharp, cutting woman she was with me into a gentle, attentive wife.

"Get out. And remember to call him 'Uncle'."

I picked up my woven sack and followed behind her.

A man sat on the living room sofa. A blanket covered his legs, and he held a book in his hands. Hearing us enter, he looked up.

This was my stepfather, Jonathan Hayes.