Beep— Beep— Beep—
The familiar sound of the monitor echoed through the darkness, drilling into my head.
It felt as if I was back in that cold, sterile white hospital room.
My wife lay on the bed—pale, weak, barely breathing.
I sat beside her, holding her hand, motionless.
Her hand used to be so warm, but now it was getting lighter, colder…
"Doctor, please… save her, I'm begging you…"
"I'm sorry… It's late-stage liver cancer. We've done all we can."
For years, I gave everything I had—
Sold our house, quit my job, borrowed money, took care of her day and night—
Just to hear her call me "husband" one more time.
But she never opened her eyes again.
I had no money left—
Nothing.
The night she passed, it rained without stopping.
From that moment, my world collapsed.
It was just me and our young daughter, Miaomiao.
To survive, I worked like a madman.
Delivering packages during the day, washing dishes at night, moving cargo in the dead of night—
Seven days a week, no rest.
The best I could do was sneak home at dawn just to look at her for a moment.
I started drinking.
Not for happiness, but to stop myself from thinking about the pain.
I passed out on the sofa, on the floor, even in the bathroom—
Yet Miaomiao never once cried.
She was incredibly mature.
Taught herself to cook, clean the house, even dragged me to bed and covered me with a blanket.
But behind all of that, she was hiding a secret I wouldn't learn until much later.
After her mother died, Miaomiao changed.
She grew quiet.
Her favorite picture books and dolls—she packed them away, one by one.
I thought she was just grieving, and that time would heal her.
I was wrong.
On her first day of school, she wrapped herself in the scarf her mother had knitted, and walked in with her head down.
She stopped speaking to anyone.
During recess, she'd sit alone in a corner, reading.
Her classmates began to stare at her.
They said she was "weird," "antisocial," "a child nobody wanted."
At first, it was just whispers.
Then they started avoiding her.
Later, they began hiding her water bottle, her backpack—behind her back.
When the teacher asked who did it, she said nothing.
She always cried alone in the stairwell at school.
No one wanted to partner with her during class activities.
Her low self-esteem, like an invisible hand, slowly tightened around her throat.
She grew more withdrawn—
More out of place.
Until that day.
The boy was one of those with a bit of status, a bit of money at school.
He always wore a harmless smile in front of others,
but around hallway corners, stairwells, or behind the classroom doors,
his eyes were always fixed on her.
He knew she wouldn't speak up, wouldn't resist—
and had no one to stand up for her.
That day after school, she was about to leave when the boy blocked her path.
"Come with me. I have something to say."
She refused, but he was prepared.
A few of his friends forced her toward the bathroom at the far end of the floor.
The door was locked from the inside.
The lighting was dim.
She backed away in fear, arms tightly guarding herself.
The boy didn't rush.
He sneered and slowly pulled out his phone.
"Relax. I'm just taking a few pictures—for memories, you know."
She cried, struggled,
but in the end, they pinned her down and tore at her clothes with force.
The sound of the camera shutter—click, click, click—
cut into her dignity like blades.
And it didn't end there.
A few days later, she found a printed photo tucked into a hidden pocket of her backpack.
One of the photos from that day.
Just one was enough.
Her body, her shame—
now tightly gripped in the hands of that boy.
"As long as you behave, no one else has to see this.
Otherwise... don't blame me."
He said it lightly,
but the threat landed like a mountain.
She widened her eyes, wanting to refuse,
but the moment someone else held that photo,
all her resistance collapsed.
That afternoon after school, she didn't come home.
He took her to a rented room off-campus.
She walked in like a lifeless puppet,
and as the door closed behind her, tears were already filling her eyes.
She didn't dare speak, didn't dare cry, didn't dare struggle.
Because in her heart, a small voice kept whispering:
"I can't let Dad know.
I can't cause him more pain."
A few months later,
on an afternoon when the sky looked like it was about to collapse—
By chance, I got off work early.
As I opened the door, the house was eerily quiet.
Only the kitchen tap was dripping: tick, tick, tick.
I was just about to call her name—
when I noticed the bathroom door slightly ajar.
A chill clenched my chest.
I walked over slowly.
The moment I pushed the door open, I froze.
She was lying on the cold tiled floor,
face pale, lips dry and cracked,
a pregnancy test clenched tightly in her hand.
Two red lines—
cut across my vision like a knife.
"Hey! Wake up!"
I picked her up in my arms and ran,
ran like hell.
In the hospital hallway, the doctor's voice felt like it was coming from far, far away:
"She's pregnant... and she's been suffering from moderate depression—for quite some time now."
I slid down against the white wall, collapsing to the floor, completely hollowed out.
How could this happen?
Why didn't I know a thing?
Why didn't she say anything?
Later, she woke up.
The light in the hospital room was warm and soft, as if nothing had happened.
But in her open eyes, there was no light—only endless darkness.
"Dad…"
Her voice was as light as a feather—
it broke apart the moment it fell.
The next second, she threw herself into my arms, clinging to me, sobbing uncontrollably.
She trembled in my embrace like a small animal that had been frozen through an entire winter—finally finding a place to hide.
"I'm sorry... I'm really sorry..."
"I didn't dare say anything... I was afraid you were already too tired...
You came home drunk every night...
I didn't want to give you more to worry about..."
It was like a dam that had been held back too long finally collapsed—
the darkest, deepest secrets in her heart came pouring out all at once.
Her voice was so broken, like scraps of paper scattered by the wind—
each sentence slicing into me like a knife.
"He has nude photos of me… He said if I don't listen, he'll send them out…
I didn't dare fight back… I was scared you'd be angry at me…
That you'd stop loving me..."
"I couldn't tell the teachers.
I couldn't tell my friends.
I could only hold on by myself… but I really… can't anymore..."
I held her tightly,
but inside, it felt like someone had carved a piece out of my heart.
She's still just a child.
The same child who used to love drawing,
who used to slip little notes into my wallet saying, "Go Dad!"
Now she had to carry all this pain—alone.
It was my fault. I was too blind.
I was a failure.
I drowned in grief and alcohol, ran away from my responsibilities—
and never once saw that she was silently sinking into despair, inch by inch.
She was crying.
And I couldn't stop my own tears.
I hated him.
But more than anything, I hated myself.
I hated the man I became after my wife died—the man who chose to escape.
I hated the version of me who thought that "working hard to make money" was the same as "being a good father."
I was right there, but further from her than anyone.
It's not that I didn't see the loneliness in her eyes.
I just pretended not to.
She held my hand, crying until she nearly passed out.
I held her, over and over, whispering:
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..."
But those three words could never wash away my sins.
I had destroyed her childhood.
Almost destroyed her life.
In that moment, I finally understood—
Losing someone isn't always about death.
Sometimes, it's watching them suffer the most painful moments of their life
and making them feel completely alone—while you're still alive.
I gently let go of her hand, stood up slowly, and turned toward the window.
The sky was still dark—
but in the distance, a faint light struggled to break through the night.
I knew I couldn't go back.
I couldn't return to the days when I could still protect her,
or hold my wife one more time.
But now, I could still do something.
Even if it was just one thing.
I took out my phone. My fingers trembled,
but there wasn't a trace of hesitation.
Dial. Connect. Report.
I gave the police his name, his school,
everything he had done—word for word.
I provided evidence.
Contacted the school.
Even went to the media if that's what it took.
He ruined my daughter's life.
I was going to use every last ounce of strength I had to make sure he paid for it.
That was the first time I truly acted like a father.
Not a drunk,
not a coward who used "exhaustion" as an excuse.
Just a man
trying to do right by his daughter.
It was the only thing I could do for her now.
And the one thing I must do.
No matter what happens—
I will never turn away again.
During that time, Miao Miao's belly grew bigger by the day.
She didn't dare go outside. She stayed off the internet. Her whole being seemed like a shadow, shrinking into the furthest corner of the house, unwilling even to approach sunlight. She never said a word, but I knew she was afraid—afraid of people's stares, afraid of gossip, afraid of being abandoned by the world.
And I—apart from staying by her side as much as I could—could do nothing.
That evening, I walked home carrying her favorite salmon rice ball and a cup of iced lemon tea. The sun was warm, a light breeze was blowing, and the food was still warm in the bag. I imagined her smiling when she saw it.
Maybe today would be a turning point. Maybe she'd be willing to talk to me.
But as I arrived at the apartment building, I saw a crowd gathered downstairs.
They were all looking upward, expressions of shock and fear frozen on their faces.
A wave of unease surged through me. I followed their gaze.
And then I saw Miao Miao.
She was standing right on the edge of the rooftop, wind blowing through her nightgown and hair.
Sunlight cast a faint glow over her figure, yet it felt so distant, so cold.
The bag in my hand dropped to the ground. I didn't bother to pick it up—I didn't care about anything. I sprinted upstairs, shouting her name as loud as I could:
"NO!! DON'T MOVE!! MIAO MIAO, COME BACK!! COME BACK!!!"
As I reached the stairwell, I glanced up again. She looked down and saw me. Our eyes met—just for a moment.
Her gaze was empty, yet I thought I saw a flicker of hesitation.
For a second, I almost believed she would come back—
But then she closed her eyes.
And the next second, she took a gentle step forward.
"No—!!!"
My scream tore through the air, echoed between the buildings.
She fell, like a feather drifting down.
Time seemed frozen, the only sound left was the wind. My chest felt like it had been ripped open, a gaping hole exploding in my heart. I wanted to leap forward—but all I could do was watch helplessly as she plummeted—
Thud!
A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. I dropped to my knees, covering my face, unable to cry.
That was my only daughter. My last family.
And I couldn't save her.
I don't know how I made it to her side. The crowd's noise buzzed in my ears but felt as if submerged underwater, distant and muted.
She was lying there.
That little girl who used to sneak candy by the kitchen… who would quietly cover me with a blanket when I was drunk… who hid her mother's photo and cried when no one was looking... now lay silently on the cold cement ground, eyes gently shut, face pale—as if asleep. But that body would never move again.
I knelt, trembling, reached out my hand—hesitant, careful, as though afraid to wake her—and gently touched her cheek.
Cold.
Truly cold.
In that moment, I felt myself plunge into a bottomless abyss.
"Miao Miao! Miao Miao!"
I called her name, my voice shaking. Once. Twice. Three times. She didn't respond. My hand brushed over her bruised arm, over the slight swell of her belly—that should've been the beginning of a new life, but instead had become the weight that pulled her down.
"I'm sorry..." I murmured, voice crumbling like brittle leaves. "Daddy was too late... I didn't do anything..."
I hugged her tightly, pressing her cold body against my chest. My tears soaked through her clothes.
"You were... the most important thing in my life... Why couldn't I even protect you?"
My voice broke. I couldn't finish the sentence. My heart felt like it was being torn open, bleeding out endlessly.
She lay silently in my arms. No answer.
I whispered into her ear, over and over again: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
But she couldn't hear me anymore.
She would never hear me again.
"AHHHHHHHHH——!!!"
I tilted my head back and screamed with everything I had—my voice sharp and piercing, slicing through the sky like the final roar of a dying beast. That scream tore my lungs apart, shredded my throat, and broke every last thread of reason I had left.
I no longer cared about anything.
"I already lost my wife!! Why did you have to take my daughter too!!!"
I stumbled to my feet, shouting helplessly at the world, as if demanding an answer from the heavens, as if someone, somewhere, should hear my rage. I collapsed beside her again, my hands gripping her shoulders, tears blurring in anger and grief.
"She did nothing wrong!!"
My fists slammed into the ground, blood gushing from my knuckles—but I felt no pain.
"Why her!! Why not me!! Why didn't I suffer this instead!!"
I stared up at the sky. No rain fell. No wind blew. Everything was deathly still.
"She was all I had left..."
My voice faded, hoarse, nearly inaudible.
"This whole life... I didn't even manage to be a proper father... I'm nothing but a failure..."
Once again, I held her tightly, kneeling in the center of the blood and the crowd, crying with all the sorrow I had. In that moment I realized—life's cruelest punishment isn't death.
It's watching your only loved one disappear in despair...
...and being powerless to stop it.
The sky was dark.
My whole body was numb. I dragged my broken, exhausted shell back home.
The moment I opened the door, a familiar yet lifeless air greeted me—
No one would ever be waiting for me on the couch again.
I stepped into the living room. It was empty.
The kitchen light was still on. On the dining table sat a half-eaten pudding, just opened—her favorite flavor.
I moved like a machine into her room. The door was ajar. The room was clean and tidy, as if she had never left.
On the desk lay a letter written on pastel blue stationery, decorated with little bear illustrations—the kind I had once casually bought for her from a convenience store.
My heart suddenly raced.
I walked over, trembling, and picked up the letter.
The handwriting was familiar, but each stroke was heavy, as if she had used up all her strength to write this final goodbye.
Dad:
I'm sorry. I'm just so tired.
I didn't want to tell you—not because I didn't trust you, but because I didn't want you to worry anymore. You've already worried too much about Mom, and now you're working so many jobs just for me. I see it all.
I don't blame you. I never have.
You are the hardest-working dad I've ever seen.
I know you'll be really sad... but please, please keep living. Eat well. Don't drink anymore.
I'm going to find Mom now. She must be lonely, right?
I'll hug her tightly for you.
Goodbye, Dad.
Thank you for raising me all these years.
I really love you.
—Your daughter who loves you, Miaomiao.**
"Ah——!!!"
I collapsed to the ground, gripping that letter tightly, my knuckles white.
The paper was soaked with tears.
"Miaomiao... no... you can't just leave like this..."
I clutched the letter like it was her final warmth.
"I didn't even get to tell you I'm sorry... I didn't even get to take you to see the world… Didn't you say you wanted to go to the beach? How could you… how could you!!!"
My chest heaved.
Tears streamed uncontrollably.
The entire apartment echoed with only my cries—
Echoing endlessly into the night.
The day of the verdict, the sun was blinding.
I sat in the plaintiff's seat, staring at the boy in the defendant's box.
That boy—the demon who killed my daughter.
I thought I'd see remorse, fear, guilt—
But there was nothing.
He stood there like it was a well-rehearsed performance. Silent. Expressionless. As if the whole world owed him an acquittal.
The judge's voice boomed like distant thunder:
"Due to insufficient evidence, the defendant is acquitted."
My mind went blank.
Acquitted?
I turned my head slowly. In the corner sat the boy's father.
Neat suit. Cold expression. The corners of his mouth even curved slightly upward.
His money and influence had cleared every obstacle.
In their world, justice had long been priced, packaged, and sold.
In my heart, I whispered:
"Miaomiao, did you hear that?"
There was no answer.
Only my heart shattering, inch by inch.
Outside the courthouse, the crowd dispersed.
I stood amidst them, watching the boy walk out freely—humming a tune, steps light.
He won. He got to keep living.
And my daughter?
My only light… was buried in the ground.
I slowly reached into my coat, and pulled out a cold, heavy gun—
Something I had gotten off the black market, and hidden for a long time.
The boy paused when he saw me, then gave me that familiar, smug smile.
"What are you going to do? Kill me?"
Bang—!
I pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through the air and hit his chest.
He fell on the courthouse steps, that smirk still frozen on his face… draining of color.
Screams erupted.
Chaos.
Police shouting.
"Drop your weapon!"
I didn't move.
Bang!
Another shot. Straight through my chest.
I shuddered—
But it didn't hurt.
Instead, I felt… relief. A kind of release I hadn't felt in years.
I collapsed to the ground, staring at the sky—
So blue. Unbearably blue.
They cuffed me as they read my rights aloud.
The gun slipped from my hand, clattering heavily on the pavement.
I didn't resist.
I just looked quietly at the boy's lifeless body, like watching a piece of trash finally taken out.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe now… I could finally sleep.
"Miaomiao... Daddy finally did something right for you."
The news exploded with the story.
Videos, photos, eyewitness accounts—all pointing to me.
The whole country debated: Why did I do it? How did I become this kind of man?
They didn't understand.
I wasn't insane.
I was just a father who lost his daughter.
The trial was quick. The outcome obvious.
I didn't hire a lawyer.
I didn't defend myself.
The judge flipped through the documents, then stared at me coldly.
"Aaron, for committing premeditated murder in a public space, with overwhelming evidence and severe consequences—
You are sentenced to life imprisonment, without the possibility of parole."
The gavel struck.
I felt… nothing.
It was over.
This battle with fate, with so-called justice—
I had lost.
But in another way,
I had won.
Because in that single moment I pulled the trigger,
I gave my daughter back the last shred of dignity this world had stolen from her.
They led me away.
As I stepped out of the courthouse, the sunlight hit my face again.
Just as bright as the day of the verdict—
Yet it could no longer reach my heart.
I didn't cry anymore.
My life… ended here.