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Love by Lottery

Ever since the biological son Asher returned, every family interaction has been governed by drawing lots. From meals to parental affection, the protagonist always loses to Asher's luck. When his mother demands fairness through chance rather than love, he spends a decade practicing his technique in vain. On his birthday, a desperate attempt to rig the lottery leads to a violent confrontation and a fatal injury. Even as he bleeds out, his only thought is to try harder to win their favor next time.
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Chapter 2

"Mom!"

I rushed toward her in excitement, but Mom walked straight through my body and kept going.

Only then did I realize that I could no longer touch her.

I followed behind her and carefully voiced what I wanted to say. She couldn’t hear me, and she hadn’t come back out of concern for me.

She had forgotten to take the car keys.

When her gaze fell on the bedroom door, I panicked like a child who had done something wrong and hurried to explain, "I didn’t mean to die. I also dirtied the house. I’m sorry, Mom. I will—"

My voice fell, crestfallen. "I can’t help clean anymore. I… I’m already dead…"

Mom stopped at the bedroom door. Her tone was casual, almost careless. "So you don’t even come out to greet me now that I’m back? You’ve really grown up. Got a temper too, even daring to give me the cold shoulder."

Then she added flatly, "But let me tell you, sulking is useless. You were unlucky and drew the short stick. You can’t blame anyone else for that."

When I still didn’t open the door, Mom grew irritated and twisted the doorknob.

At that moment, Asher ran in. "Mom, hurry up! The amusement park is about to open!"

Mom gave up on entering the bedroom. She picked up the car keys and headed out impatiently. "We’ll be out until night. We won’t be back for dinner. Have the roast drumstick on the table for dinner. Don’t say I’m unfair.

"Asher didn’t eat it either. And this time, I didn’t even make you draw lots. That’s already me favoring you."

The roast chicken on the table was something Asher had left over from yesterday.

When Mom came back from the supermarket yesterday, she had only bought that single drumstick. She made Asher and me draw lots, and I drew the short stick again.

I hadn’t eaten meat in a long time. I was craving it so badly that I reached out and touched it.

Mom slapped the back of my hand red and scolded me harshly, "Have you forgotten all the rules? You drew the short stick. The drumstick belongs to Asher. It has nothing to do with you. Touch it again, and I’ll chop your hand off.

"I’ve never seen anyone as greedy as you. It’s like I’ve been starving you every day."

Today, she had actually told me to eat it. Mom was really kind.

I was so happy that I forgot I was only a soul now. I couldn’t touch the drumstick at all.

A stray cat leaped in through the window and snatched it away. When it hissed at me aggressively, I couldn’t stop it.

I could only squat in the corner, heartbroken. I didn’t know how much time passed before Mom, Dad, and Asher came back. Every one of them looked happy.

"Mom, the panda was so big and fluffy! I liked it so much. Mom, will you buy me one?"

Mom doted on Asher, kissing his forehead as she reprimanded him lightly, "Do you think I have that kind of money?"

Asher hummed and stepped back. "Don’t kiss me yet. We haven’t drawn lots. If Silas sees it, he’ll cry again and say it’s unfair. Maybe he’s already hiding in the bedroom, crying. Today’s his birthday, after all."

Mom glanced at the table where the drumstick was gone. She let out a faint, indifferent snort, her tone firm and certain.

"If he can draw the long stick, I’ll kiss him too. Too bad his luck is horrible. He didn’t draw it. And he already ate the drumstick on the table. He’s just deliberately not coming out. Silas is narrow-minded. Don’t bother with him."

No one could see me, so they didn't know I had already died in the bedroom.

Mom started preparing supper. She raised her voice strangely and shouted toward my bedroom.

"Silas, are you sure you're not coming out to draw lots? Then I’ll make food Asher likes. Don’t cry later and say it’s unfair."

Dad, who was watching TV, said impatiently, "Why bother with him? If he’s not drawing, then so be it. Just make what Asher likes and let him sulk.

"We raised him for so many years. If he’s not grateful, that’s one thing. Now he’s even picking fights with us. Ungrateful brat."

I stood there and thought.

Even if we drew lots, so what? For ten years, the table had always been filled with food Asher liked.

I could only gnaw on dry, plain rice, but Mom and Dad didn’t let me starve to death, did they?