Without thinking, she reached for the little fox figurine on her bedside table and held it tightly against her chest.
That moment—The dream from the afternoon—It slammed back into her mind.Her body tensed with a sudden jolt.
Was that dream... real?
A raspy voice seemed to echo in her ears:
“This place is fake... but also real. You only have a hundred days.”
Her fingers turned cold. Her heartbeat quickened.
What day was it today?
She flipped through the calendar in a panic—The 15th?
Wait, she clearly remembered the dream happening on the 8th… of last month. How had time flown so fast?
Something didn’t feel right. It was like time itself had sped up unnaturally. She shook her head, trying to piece it all together.
But another unease crept in.
Why had she blurted out that sentence so instinctively—“I want a different mom.”
Was that really how she felt, deep down?
“If I find the girl within the deadline, I can escape this life… and switch to a perfect mother.”
She bit her lower lip. Her eyes settled on the cake.Her mind spiraled.
Maybe…Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea?
A mom who would understand her.Support her.Encourage her.A mom who would be gentle, and give hugs.
Nora closed her eyes and let the fantasy unfold.
Meanwhile, Elaine tiptoed back to her daughter’s door.
She held her breath. Waited.No sound from inside.
Carefully, she peeked her head around the frame—The tray she’d left outside was empty.The milk and cake were gone.
She exhaled softly, relieved. But something else stirred in her chest—an emotion she couldn’t name.
Elaine returned to her bedroom, turned off the lights, and lay in bed wide awake.
If she didn’t manage Nora’s life—her clothes, her food, her studies—Then what else was she even here for?
Maybe she wasn’t meant to exist in this world to begin with.Maybe it was God’s mercy that had given her a daughter.
Her thoughts spiraled.Her hands, once relaxed, slowly clenched the blanket. Fingertips dug deep into the fabric.
Her foster mother had been a plump, sharp-tongued housewife.At ten years old, she’d casually told Elaine the truth:“You’re not mine.”
Her tone that day had been a mix of contempt, mockery, and smug pity.There was a cheap necklace too, handed over with little ceremony. Elaine never understood its meaning.
Though her foster mother claimed to love her—Said she’d raise her out of kindness—She also made it clear:
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“You’re not like the other kids.Don’t expect too much affection.Be useful. Grow up fast. Help around the house.”
Elaine had known from then on—Crying wasn’t welcome.So when she wanted to cry, she’d hide in a corner.
That early, fragile fear of abandonment never left her.She clung to every thread of love like it might vanish at any moment.So she grew up fast.Too fast.Too obedient.
And now—Her daughter was everything to her.Her meaning. Her purpose. Her proof that she belonged.
Her redemption.
But was she really saving anyone?
Elaine frowned, shaking her head, trying to push away such foolish thoughts.
She rolled over in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.Her heartbeat pounded heavily in her chest.
Nora couldn’t become like her.Her daughter had to live the life she couldn’t.
Nora had to become better.She couldn’t fail.
She shut her eyes tight, forcing herself to sleep.
But from the depths of her memory…A train whistle screamed across the night.
A woman’s cries echoed in her ears.
Who was she?
Elaine didn’t know.Didn’t want to know.
She sank into a dream.
In the darkness, a fox’s eyes on the wall slowly opened.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting soft patches of light onto the ground.
Lucas sat beneath the large tree behind the school, fingers gently rotating a paintbrush.
The wood was warm to the touch.The end was etched with delicate silver vine patterns, winding and flowing like a secret language.
His gaze wandered—As if pulled back to a distant, unforgettable afternoon.
He must’ve been around eight.
Right here, under this tree, his art teacher had been speaking with his mother.
The teacher—a middle-aged man with round glasses and a plain linen shirt—held Lucas’s drawing in one hand and patted his shoulder with the other. There was an excitement in his voice he couldn’t quite contain:
“He’s got real talent. Especially with emotional expression.I’ve been teaching for over a decade.Kids this sensitive don’t come around often.You should seriously consider buying him professional supplies.Don’t waste his potential.”
Standing beside him, Elaine wore a pale pink dress.The neckline was slightly wrinkled.Her hands were clasped tight in front of her abdomen, and her face—Overflowed with joy. Like it was the first time someone had recognized her son’s future.
“I’ll talk to his father,” she replied quietly, but firmly.
That evening, his father sat at the dining table—reading the paper, sipping tea.The metal-rimmed glasses gleamed under the lamp.
Elaine spoke softly:
“The teacher said Lucas is really good at drawing. He suggested we get him better tools.”
His father didn’t even lift an eyebrow.
“Paintbrushes? Fine. Buy them. We’re not poor.”
Elaine tried again:
“He said we should get a professional-grade set—”
The man closed the newspaper with a snap.
“I’ll take him myself tomorrow.”
The next afternoon, they went to the art supply store downtown.
Behind the counter stood a sales clerk in a red vest. As soon as he saw them, he greeted them warmly:
“Looking for brushes? We’ve got entry-level and high-end professional sets.”
“Give us your most expensive one,” the father said flatly.
But Lucas’s attention was drawn elsewhere—To a brush displayed alone in the corner.
A deep brown wooden handle.Gold vines curled around the base.Exactly like the brush he’d seen a thousand times in his dreams.
“Can I try that one?” he asked, pointing.
His father frowned. Took one glance.
“That? Looks girly. Boys should use something with more grip.”
He picked up a hard-edged, steel-gray brush and handed it over.
Lucas lowered his eyes.Didn’t argue.They bought the one his father chose.
That night, Elaine knocked gently on his door.
She wore her pajamas, hair pinned behind one ear.She stepped in quietly, closing the door behind her.
In her hands—A small paper bag.
“This is the one you liked,” she whispered. “I went back to exchange it.”
Lucas stared at her, stunned.
She smiled and added, even softer:
“Don’t tell Dad, okay? Just our little secret.”
He took the brush.
Inside, joy flickered—But also something heavier. Something bitter.
Even buying a paintbrush had to be done in secret in this house.
He didn’t say anything.Just nodded.