My Birthday Mission

After dropping Joanna off at her place, Gus firmly rejected her hints about staying the night.

That was unusual for him.

In the past, when Gus and I traveled to the neighboring city to meet clients, it took us five hours by car. Even if we wrapped up at 1:00 AM, he would stubbornly insist on returning home to Joanna. "Every time I go on business trips with you, Joanna won't be able to sleep if I don't go back," he would say.

Gus kept his eyes downcast. His face was shadowed by the darkness of the car, making it impossible for me to read his expression. The atmosphere in the vehicle was heavy and stifling.

Finally, the driver broke the silence. "Mr. Harding, should we head to the hospital?"

It was then that Gus realized something was off. In this latest fight, I hadn't rushed to his side to protect him, nor had I tenderly cleaned his wounds.

He shook his head, his reply succinct. "Take me to Genevieve's."

Indeed, it seemed that only when he needed something did Gus remember I existed.

As a child, he was a troublemaker, often daydreaming of being a hero. While he picked fights and stirred up trouble, he also ended up getting hurt more times than I could count. I was always there to patch him up; my house even had a cabinet full of ointments and bandages.

My home was enveloped in darkness, with not a single light on.

Yet Gus merely mumbled, "Why has Genevieve gone to bed so early?"

He first pressed the ordinary doorbell, but there was no response. Frowning slightly, Gus's impatience grew. He walked to the side and pressed his special doorbell.

Once, I had excitedly told him I'd created a personalized doorbell just for him. "This doorbell is known only to you. As soon as it rings, I'll be there to open the door, no matter where I am."

But now, that special doorbell rang and rang, yet the one he expected to see never appeared.

Finally, Gus lost his patience. He raised his voice, shouting up to my room, "Genevieve, don't mess with me!"

But upstairs, it remained dark and silent.

I drifted into my familiar room, but my gaze fell upon the cheap gifts Gus had given me over the years. A piece of gum, a common stuffed animal, even a pen and notebook he had once used. Anything he had ever given me, I had accepted without question.

I wanted to float over and toss them out, but my body passed right through the table.

Could I somehow appear in Suzie's dream, asking her to help me get rid of this clutter? Even in death, I didn't want those reminders lingering in my space.

As I wallowed in my thoughts, Gus had reached the end of his patience and was yelling downstairs.

That was expected; he had never been known for his patience with me.

He knew that no matter how he treated me, I would greet him with a smile the next day and draw close again.

After exhausting his energy shouting, Gus tried calling me. "Sorry, the number you dialed is unavailable at the moment…"

My phone broke in the crash, so it was impossible to reach me now.

He texted me instead. [Genevieve, open the door right now.]

One second passed. Then two. A minute went by with no response.

Gus's expression darkened as he struggled to contain his anger, an icy chill radiating from him.

"Very well, Genevieve! You're really something!"

He ground his teeth, saying, "If this is what you want, you'd better not show your face to me ever again."

With that, he turned and walked away.

But this time, I truly wouldn't be showing up again.

I was dead—killed by my failure to win him over, killed in a crash that he had caused.

On the way back, the atmosphere in the car grew even more oppressive.

The driver cautiously glanced at Gus's face and asked, "Mr. Harding, should we go to the hospital or back home?"

This home referred to Joanna's.

Before Gus could answer, a shrill ringtone sliced through the silence.

"Gus, you jerk! How could you do this to Genevieve?"

Hearing my name, Gus's body stiffened, and he anxiously asked, "Where's Genevieve?"

Suzie screamed into the phone, "She's dead! You killed her!"