“Understood. When do you want to leave?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Who’s leaving?”
Before I could end the call, my sister pushed the door open.
Her eyes flashed with unease.
I quickly locked my phone screen and answered calmly.
“Nothing. Just wondering how long it’ll take before I can be discharged.”
Hearing my answer, my sister visibly relaxed.
“Bert, the doctor said you need to stay in the hospital for a few more days for observation. There’s no rush to be discharged.”
Yet, for some reason, a flicker of unease flashed through her eyes as she spoke.
The next morning, I woke up to find that both my sister and younger sister—who had stayed by my side the night before—were gone.
Left with no choice, I climbed into my wheelchair and decided to go home to grab a few things.
But the moment I opened the door, I was met with a sight that sent a chill down my spine.
The maple trees in the garden—the ones I had painstakingly cared for over the years—had been completely uprooted.
In their place stood large, jarring patches of cacti.
Beyond them, the house’s massive French windows revealed a gathering of people I knew all too well.
My elder sister was pushing a ten-layer cake.