Part 2The Boy in the Floral Dress

Slowly, the pain faded.

Like a dandelion seed caught in the wind, I floated up to the ceiling.

I could see the small body on the bed clearly.

The floral dress was wrinkled around him. His face was paper-white, lips blue, dried bile at the corner of his mouth. He was still clutching the doll.

When Mom pushed the door open, I was looking at my hands.

Transparent. Sunlight passed through them.

She didn't look at me on the bed. She walked straight to the desk, picked up Chloe's photo, and wiped it again and again.

"Chloe, Mom is going to buy you a new bassinet today. Do you like pink or blue?"

She turned to leave and accidentally kicked the bed leg.

She glanced impatiently at me on the bed. Frowning, she said, "Still sleeping? The sun is up. Get up and make breakfast. Do you want to starve me and Chloe?"

I floated in front of her and spoke, but she couldn't hear me. She stomped out in her slippers, humming a lullaby.

From the kitchen came the sound of Dad beating eggs and Mom's instruction: "Add two more spoons of sugar. Chloe loved sweets."

I floated to the kitchen door. Dad put a pancake on a plate. It was heart-shaped.

I didn't like heart-shaped pancakes. But since Chloe died, Dad only made them heart-shaped. He said Chloe liked them.

Mom took the plate and placed it in the center of the table carefully, like an offering.

"Go wake him up," Mom told Dad impatiently. "Don't let him delay us buying the bassinet."

Dad put down the milk and walked toward my room.

I followed him. He stood by the bed, reaching out, but his hand stopped on the blanket.

"Noah, wake up." His voice was soft. "We're buying a bassinet today. Want to come?"

My body on the bed didn't move. Dad's fingers trembled. He shook my shoulder. "Noah?"

Mom shouted from the living room: "What's taking so long? Is he faking sleep again?"

She rushed in. Seeing Dad frozen by the bed, she exploded. "He's definitely faking! He just doesn't want us to buy Chloe a bassinet! Ignore him. Let's go. Chloe is waiting."

Dad didn't move. He looked at my body, agitated. "He is our child too."

"He is not!" Mom screamed. "My only child is Chloe! He is the murderer who killed Chloe!"

She grabbed the photo from the desk and smashed it on the floor. Glass shards cut Dad's hand.

Dad said nothing. He picked up the shards silently and wrapped his hand in a tissue.

The phone rang. It was the school teacher.

Mom answered, voice instantly gentle: "Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Is it about Chloe... I mean, Noah?"

Hearing the teacher ask why I wasn't at school, Mom's voice turned cold. "He skipped school on purpose. Don't worry about him. Let him rot."

She hung up and pulled Dad away. "Let's go. Don't let him waste our time."

Dad looked back at my room, paused, but let Mom drag him away.

As the door closed, I saw Dad wipe his eyes.

The house was quiet. Only the clock ticked.

I floated to the bed, looking at myself.

My face was round but gaunt, chin sharp.

My hair was shorter than Mom wanted. Not flowing like Chloe's.

I remembered the last haircut. The barber cut it a bit short, and Mom screamed at him, saying he ruined Chloe's look.

She made me kneel for two hours at home, saying I didn't deserve to have hair like Chloe's.

Kneeling there, looking at Chloe's photo, I suddenly felt like a stranger.