An Exchange of Lives

Melody was an obedient child, timid by nature. Without Hope or me giving her permission, she would never wander into an unfamiliar place on her own.

But surveillance footage showed otherwise. It captured her seemingly spotting something familiar, waving at it, and then running out of the camera's view with a smile.

We searched everywhere among familiar friends and acquaintances. Just as we were about to call the police, a letter was delivered by the security guard.

It read, "Call the police, and you'll see her dead."

Later that evening, the security guard handed over a video.

The background showed an abandoned concrete building.

Melody was huddled in a corner, her small body filthy, her hands and feet bound tightly with duct tape, and a coarse cloth stuffed into her mouth. Beyond that, the video didn't reveal much.

The kidnapper didn't appear on screen but spoke in a cold, distorted voice altered by a voice changer, laying out their demands.

Five million.

And a life for a life.

I could gather five million. Even if it were ten or 20 million, I would sell everything, take out loans, and even resort to loan sharks to save Melody.

But the demand for a life…

I had to call the police. There was no other way.

Just pressing those three buttons soaked me in a cold sweat. My finger hovered over the dial button. However, as if weighed down by an invisible mountain, I couldn't click on it.

Before I could press it, the screen suddenly lit up with an incoming call.

An unknown number.

My heart jolted violently, as though it would explode from the pressure. A paralyzing sense of dread swept over me. My fingers trembled as I swiped to answer the call.

I held the phone to my ear.

All I heard was silence.

The only sound was my own rough, broken breathing, loud and unsteady like the rasp of a bellows.

In that instant, I knew that this was a call from the kidnapper.

He was watching us! He knew I was about to call the police. That was why he called—to warn me!

At that moment, the scales in my mind tipped violently to one side, and an overwhelming wave of regret surged through me.

If anything happened to Melody…

My throat felt like it was blocked by something. I opened my mouth wide in a desperate attempt to speak, but no words came out.

It was Hope, who collapsed on the floor, who realized what was happening. She suddenly lunged forward, snatching the phone from my hand.

She knelt on the ground, babbling incoherently in desperation. Her face was streaked with tears and snot.

"We won't call the police! We promise not to call the police! Please, I beg you, don't hurt Melody. Don't hurt Melody. She's just a little girl…

"If you want someone dead, I'll do it! Kill me! Just kill me! But don't harm my daughter…"

By the time I crawled over, she had already let the phone drop from her hands, her movements listless and dazed.

The call had ended.

I pulled her trembling body into my arms, holding her tightly. My voice, dull and hoarse, slipped out almost mechanically. "I understand. I'll send Mom… Melody will come back safely."

Yes. Melody had to be fine.

Besides, Mom loved me so much. She would definitely agree to it.

Mom was the person who loved me most in the world.

I had an older brother years ago. When he was ten, he drowned in the river while no one was watching. By the time his body was retrieved, it was grotesquely bloated and looked horrifying.

Mom locked herself in her room for three whole days, refusing food and water. She even attempted to ingest pesticides multiple times.

It was my cries, my desperate screams of "Mom!" that echoed outside her door, that finally pulled her back from the brink of death. My voice was reduced to bloodied hoarseness by then.

From that day forward, all the love that once belonged to my brother was poured into me a hundredfold.

Mom protected me in every way possible like I was the apple of her eye.

For me, the grief over my brother's death didn't last long. What lingered was the selfish joy of monopolizing all of Mom's love and care.

But when I hit my teenage years, that meticulous care began to feel like a suffocating cage, pressing down on me until I could barely breathe.