My Brother and I Both Get a Rebirth

The day my parents divorced, two agreements sat on the table.
One was to stay with my gambling, debt-ridden father in the old neighborhood.
The other was to go with my mother, who was remarrying a wealthy businessman, to the coast.
In my last life, my younger brother, Liam, threw a tantrum, crying for Mom. I quietly packed my bags and went with Dad.
Later, Dad quit gambling, our old house was demolished for a huge payout, and he showered me with affection.
Meanwhile, Liam was emotionally abused at his stepfather's house, forbidden from leaving, and eventually died from depression.
This time, starting over, Liam snatched the cigarette from Dad's hand and clung to him, refusing to let go.
"Leo, I feel bad for Dad. You go enjoy the good life. I'm leaving it for you."
Dad froze for a second, then a look of relief crossed his face as he patted Liam's head.
I said nothing. I just picked up the train ticket to the coast.
Liam didn't know that the only reason Dad quit gambling in our last life was because I, diagnosed with a brain tumor, worked myself to the point of coughing up blood to pay his debts. My life was the price for his redemption.
In this new life, free from the sound of debt collectors, all I wanted was a good night's sleep.
...
I picked up my worn duffel bag.
"Go on, get out of here. Go find your gold-digging mother," Dad said, waving his hand like he was shooing a fly.
Liam hid behind Dad and made a face at me, mouthing exaggeratedly, "Bro, don't come crawling to me for money later."
I just smiled and didn't say a word. I turned and walked out into the rain.
I hunched my shoulders, a damp chill seeping into the very marrow of my bones.
It didn't really matter where I went.
I just wanted to find a quiet place to live out my remaining time.
No more listening to loan sharks banging on the door.
No more smelling that nauseating stench of cheap cigarette smoke.
Mom's black Mercedes was parked at the end of the alley. The window rolled down, revealing her perfectly maintained face. She frowned at the sight of me, soaked to the bone, her eyes filled with disdain.
"What happened to you? Get in, quickly. Don't get the car dirty."
I opened the back door and was about to get in.
"Put that bag in the trunk," Mom snapped, pointing at my duffel. "It's filthy. God knows what kind of germs are on it."
I paused for a moment.
But I did as she said, closing the door and stowing the bag in the trunk. When I got back in the car, I squeezed myself into the corner, trying not to touch the leather seats.
The heat was blasting, but I was still cold.
"Leo, when we get there, you need to be sensible," Mom said, watching me in the rearview mirror as she drove. "Your stepfather doesn't like noise. Stay in your room unless you have a reason to come out."
"Don't slurp when you eat. Don't drag your feet when you walk."
"And another thing. Don't ever mention your father. He's bad luck."
I watched the rain-streaked scenery fly by and nodded. "I know."
The thorn in my brain pricked me again. For a second, the world went black, and I raised a hand to my forehead.
"What's wrong?" Mom asked, her tone laced with impatience.
"Nothing. Just carsick," I said.
"So dramatic," she scoffed. "You're just like your father."
I closed my eyes and swallowed, forcing back the coppery tang of blood that rose in my throat.
I'm not doing this again in the next life.
The drive took five hours. It was pitch black by the time we pulled into a gated community on the hillside. It was ablaze with light, yet cloaked in a dead, suffocating silence.
"We're here." Mom parked the car, touched up her lipstick, and took a deep breath. She was shifting gears, transforming from the sharp-tongued woman she was with me into a gentle, considerate wife.
"Get out. Remember to call him Mr. Sangster."
I followed behind her, carrying my duffel bag.
A man was sitting on the living room sofa. A blanket covered his legs, and a book was in his hands. He looked up when he heard us.
This was my stepfather, Julian Sangster. The man who drove Liam to his death in my last life.
"You're back?" His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
"Julian, this is Leo," Mom said, pushing me forward with a plastered-on smile. "Leo, say hello to Mr. Sangster."
I stepped forward and gave a slight bow. "Hello, Mr. Sangster."
Julian turned a page in his book as if he hadn't heard me. After a few seconds, a quiet "Mm" escaped his nostrils. His gaze flickered down to my wet shoes, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
"The carpet is new."
He looked back down at his book. "The guest room is ready. Second floor, first door on the left."
"Thank you, Mr. Sangster," I said.
Mom let out a sigh of relief and pulled me upstairs. "See? Mr. Sangster is a very nice person," she whispered. "Just don't make him angry, and you'll be able to stay here."
The room was huge and empty.
"Mom." I called out just as she was about to leave.
"What is it?"
"I'd like to change rooms."
Her expression soured instantly. "Leo, are you seriously being picky the moment you arrive? What's wrong with this room? It's a hundred times better than that pigsty your father lives in. Don't be ungrateful."
I watched her tirade calmly. When she finally ran out of steam, I spoke.
"It's not that. This room faces north. It's too cold."
"I'd like a south-facing room, even if it's smaller."
I was genuinely cold. The tumor had messed with my body's ability to regulate temperature, leaving me in a perpetual state of freezing. Only sunlight offered any real comfort.
"Cold? Just turn on the heat," she said, thinking I was being unreasonable. "The south-facing rooms are your Mr. Sangster's study and a storage room."
"The storage room is fine," I said.
Her eyes widened. "Are you insane? You'd rather sleep in a storage room than a perfectly good guest room? Are you doing this on purpose? Trying to make Julian think I'm mistreating you?" Her voice grew shrill.
I covered my ears. It was too loud. The blood vessels in my head throbbed.
"I'm just cold," I repeated.
Just then, two soft knocks came from the doorway. Julian was standing there, a glass of water in his hand, his expression dark.
"What's all the shouting about?"
Mom's demeanor changed in a flash, her voice trembling. "It's nothing, Julian. The boy is just being difficult, complaining about his room. I'll handle him."
Julian looked at me, and I looked back at him. His face was pale, his lips colorless. He looked like he was dying.
"Where do you want to stay?" he asked me.
"The south-facing one," I said, pointing down the hall.
"That room is filled with old furniture."
"I don't mind. As long as there's sun."
Julian was silent for a moment. "Suit yourself. Just don't shout in the hallway."
He turned and left, completely uninterested in our mother-son dispute.
Mom poked my forehead in frustration. "Just keep pushing it. What will people say when they hear you're living in a storage room? How am I supposed to show my face?"
I ignored her and walked toward the end of the hall with my duffel bag.
I pushed the door open, and a cloud of dust hit me.
But I saw the floor-to-ceiling window.
When the sun rose tomorrow, this room would be warm. That was enough.
I made my bed and placed the photo album under my pillow. The doctor's diagnosis was tucked inside it. As long as I was alive, no one would bother snooping through my things.
That night, I slept soundly. There were no debt collectors in my dreams, only a vast, endless darkness.
I settled into the house like a ghost, an invisible presence.
Julian liked quiet. Even the housekeeper tiptoed around.
Mom spent her days trying to please him, making him soup, giving him massages, and watching boring financial news with him. She was less a wife than a high-end caregiver.
As for me, I rarely left my room, except for meals.
I had cleaned out the storage room. It was still cluttered with old furniture, but the sunlight was wonderful. I would often pull up a chair and sit by the window for hours, basking like an old man on the verge of death.
Sometimes Julian would pass by my open door. He would pause when he saw me soaking up the sun, but he never said anything. The look in his eyes was strange, as if he were looking at one of his own kind.
One day at lunch, the dining table was silent except for the soft clinking of chopsticks against porcelain.
My phone suddenly buzzed, sounding like an alarm in the quiet room.
Julian frowned. Mom immediately put down her chopsticks and shot me a glare. "Who told you to bring your phone to the table? Have some manners."
"Hang up," she ordered.
I took out my phone and glanced at the screen. It was Liam.
I declined the call. Two seconds later, it buzzed again. I declined it again.
The third time it vibrated, Julian set down his chopsticks. "Just answer it," he said, his voice faint. "The noise is giving me a headache."
I took the phone out to the balcony. The second I answered, Liam's voice exploded in my ear.
"Leo, did you do this on purpose? You took the bank book, didn't you?"
I held the phone away from my ear. "What bank book?"
"Dad said the bank book is missing. He's sure you stole it. There was five hundred dollars in there!"
I had to laugh. That five hundred dollars was what I had earned washing dishes last summer.
"That was my money," I said.
"Your money is the family's money," Liam shot back, full of self-righteousness. "Dad has no money for cigarettes now, and he's throwing a fit. You'd better transfer the money over, or I'll tell Mom you stole from us."
I could hear things crashing in the background and Dad's slurred curses.
"Useless piece of trash! Ungrateful wolf!"
"I should've strangled you at birth!"
Even from hundreds of miles away, those voices still suffocated me.
"I didn't steal anything," I said calmly. "That was money I was saving for my medical bills."
"Medical bills? What's wrong with you?" Liam sneered. "Stop pretending. Just send the money, or I'll go to your school and tell everyone you're letting your own father die."
I looked out at the garden. The flowers were in full bloom, a violent, blood-red.
"Liam," I said. "You chose this path. Now you have to walk it, even if you have to crawl."
"Don't bother me again."
I hung up and blocked his number.
As I turned, I felt a warmth trickle from my nose. I touched it and my hand came away covered in blood.
Frantically, I pulled a tissue from my pocket and pressed it to my face, tilting my head back to stop the flow. But it was coming fast, running down my throat and into my stomach, making me nauseous.
I rushed to the downstairs bathroom. In the mirror, I saw the bright red blood staining half my face. I turned on the faucet and desperately tried to wash it off.
"What are you doing?"
A voice came from behind me. I froze, and through the mirror, I saw Julian standing in the doorway. He was looking at my blood-and-water-streaked face, his eyes dark and deep.
I hastily wiped my face. "Nosebleed," I mumbled, looking down. "Probably just the dry air."
Julian didn't say anything. He walked over and handed me a clean towel. "Here."
I took it and pressed it to my nose. "Thanks, Mr. Sangster."
He glanced at the faint red streaks still in the sink. "Does this happen often?"
"Sometimes," I lied. The nosebleeds were getting more frequent.
Julian studied me for a long moment. "You should see a doctor," he said.
"It's not necessary. It's an old problem." I kept my head down, trying to get past him.
"Leo." He stopped me. "You don't have to walk on eggshells in this house. Your mother is your mother. You are you."
I froze and looked up at him. His expression was still cold, but there was something in his eyes I didn't understand.
"If you don't feel well, say something."
"No one's giving out medals for toughing it out."
He turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the bathroom. The towel in my hand smelled faintly of pine. That was his scent. That, and the faint scent of death.
Julian had a secret. I knew because I'd seen a familiar pill bottle in his study's trash can.
It was a powerful painkiller, the kind prescribed to terminal cancer patients.
Mom had asked me to bring a fruit platter to his study one day. Julian wasn't there; he was at the hospital for dialysis. As I was leaving, I saw the familiar white bottle in the wastebasket. I picked it up. It was labeled as Ibuprofen, but inside were morphine tablets.
I'd used the same trick. Hiding life-saving medicine in an ordinary vitamin bottle, to fool myself as much as others.
So, the aloof, untouchable stepfather, the man Liam called a cold-hearted monster, was also enduring his own private hell.
I put the bottle back and pretended I hadn't seen anything.
That evening, Julian came home looking worse than usual, his steps unsteady. Mom rushed to help him.
"Don't touch me," he snapped, pulling away, his voice tight with pain.
Mom's hands froze in mid-air, her eyes welling up. "Julian, did I do something wrong?"
"I'm just tired," he said without looking at her, and went straight upstairs. He paused for a fraction of a second as he passed me. In that instant, I smelled the heavy scent of antiseptic from the hospital, and a faint, metallic trace of blood. The lingering smell of dialysis.
I woke up in the middle of the night, pain screaming through my head. The tumor was pressing on my nerves, a relentless, crushing force. I was drenched in a cold sweat, curled in a ball, shaking.
I needed water. I stumbled out of bed and made my way downstairs. The living room was dark, but I could see a shadow on the sofa.
It was Julian, sitting perfectly still. A cigarette glowed between his fingers, a tiny ember in the darkness.
I didn't dare make a sound and started to back away.
"Since you're awake, come here." His voice, hoarse and weary, cut through the dark.
I had no choice but to approach. "Mr. Sangster."
"Do you play chess?" he asked.
"A little."
"Play a game with me."
I sat across from him. In the moonlight, I could see his face was ashen, his forehead slick with sweat. He was in pain, just like me.
We played three games in silence, the only sound the crisp click of the pieces on the board. His moves were aggressive, a release of some pent-up fury. Mine were steady, calculated.
"Are you that afraid of losing?" Julian suddenly asked.
"I can't afford to lose," I said, placing a piece.
Julian let out a short, dry laugh. "Life is a lost game from the start. No matter how much you struggle, you lose in the end."
I didn't argue.
As dawn approached, the final game ended. I was about to put the pieces away when Julian's hand pressed down on the board.
"Leo. That diagnosis you have hidden under your pillow," he said, his voice low. "How long did you plan on hiding it?" He looked up, his deep-set eyes boring straight into me. "Leo. That diagnosis you have hidden under your pillow. How long did you plan on hiding it?"
My hand, holding a chess piece, froze. My heart skipped a beat.
He knew.
Of course he knew. In this house, if he wanted to know something, nothing could stay hidden.

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