Chapter 1Escaping My Mother's Afterlife

Driven to suicide by her, I thought my death would finally bring her remorse.

Instead, I watched her pay a fortune to an occult medium:

"Medium, exactly how many Spirit Dollars do I need to burn every day to stop her from overspending down there?"

"Is there a way to make her 'check in' every day, just like when she was alive? If she behaves, I'll burn more money."

In that moment, I actually felt a wave of relief—

Thank God I was dead. I was finally free from her control.

But the medium's chilling voice instantly shattered my illusion:

"Yes.

"There actually is a way."

* * *

After I died.

My mom burned exactly twenty Spirit Dollars for me every single day.

Just like when I was alive, she would transfer exactly twenty bucks to my bank account every morning for living expenses.

Exact to the penny. Not a cent more.

But surviving in the Netherworld was far more destitute than anyone could imagine.

I stood shivering in the biting spectral wind, struggling to calculate today's expenses:

"Crypt Lease"—even the most rundown wooden coffin cost 10 Spirit Dollars a day.

"Reaper Protection Fee"—to avoid being bullied by vicious poltergeists, you had to pay the Reapers 200 Spirit Dollars a month.

"Soul Painkillers"—ghosts who died unnatural deaths, like me, were forced to repeatedly experience the agonizing pain of our final moments. You had to drink the painkillers to suppress it. Each dose cost 15 Spirit Dollars.

On top of that, there were "Reincarnation Taxes," "Soul Mending Fees," "Incense Meals," "Phantom Garments"...

With twenty Spirit Dollars a day, I could barely afford to suppress my agonizing pain.

Let alone find a safe place to live or avoid getting harassed.

"Tsk."

The Reaper collecting the protection fee weighed my few, thin paper bills in his hand, looking at me weirdly.

"When other families burn money, it’s tens of thousands at a time. This person in your family... burning twenty bucks a day? If I say she cares, she clearly remembers you. If I say she's cheap... wow, she's literally cheaping out the Netherworld."

I pressed my lips together tightly, not saying a word.

They didn't understand.

This was my mother's obsession with control, carved deep into her very bones.

It was like this when I was alive. And now, in death... it followed me like a shadow.

"Look, why don't you request a Dream Visitation? Tell your mom to burn more cash. She probably just doesn't know how expensive the Afterlife is," the Reaper suggested slowly.

"Every new soul gets one free Dream Visitation voucher, just so you can tell your folks to send more money."

Dream Visitation?

That meant I'd have to face my mother again?

A shudder violently racked my body. Just the thought of it made my soul run cold.

I still clearly remembered how every single day of my life was spent simmering in fear and suffocation.

My mother demanded that I video call her three times a day—morning, noon, and night. I had to report every microscopic detail of my college classes and my social life.

Furthermore, I had to go to the library every single day, record a video of myself studying as a "check-in," and state to the camera: "Today is day X of working hard."

Only when all of this was completed would I receive my twenty dollars for the next day.

I tried to object once.

But my mother was self-righteous:

"Twenty bucks! I calculated it perfectly. It is exactly enough for your food and water! College girls are easily corrupted by temptations. I am controlling your materialistic desires so you build good, frugal habits. You ungrateful brat, I put my heart into this and you think I'm hurting you?!"

The sheer entitlement in her voice instantly crushed any argument I had.

I knew fighting back was useless.

So, I learned to be silent.

I learned to shove every ounce of grievance and every shred of desire deep down into my chest, building a shell of "obedience" just to earn my pitiful right to survive.

Yet, even trying my absolute hardest, I could never seem to meet her demands.

When I needed to buy tampons.

When I ran out of toilet paper.

When I just wanted a piece of fresh fruit.

I was constantly trapped in humiliation.

I couldn't have a normal social life. When my roommates asked me to get boba tea or grab dinner, what was I supposed to say? Hold on, let me ask my mom to authorize a Venmo transfer?

Besides, I knew that even if I asked, she wouldn't give it to me.

Once, I gathered my courage. After a roommate kindly bought me a coffee, I begged my mom for an extra twenty dollars so I could treat her back.

My mother demanded I write a two-thousand-word essay detailing the exact justification for the extra funds.

After I racked my brain to write that essay, she replied with only two words:

[Request Denied.]

There was another time when my period cramps were so bad I couldn't get out of bed on time.

At 7:00 AM sharp, her phone call rang out like a death warrant:

"Where the hell are you?! Where is the video? Where is the check-in?! It's only been a few days and you're already slacking off?! Are you hanging out with those trashy girls again? I'm telling you, if today's check-in isn't done, don't even think about tomorrow's money!"

Even as I explained through trembling lips that I was sick, she didn't soften in the slightest.

"So what if it's your period?! What woman doesn't get her period? I don't see anyone else acting as dramatic as you! You're just lazy to the bone and making excuses!"

She didn't even care that I had a final exam that day. The only thing that mattered was that I hadn't greeted her at the exact right second, and her rage ignited like a wildfire, screaming that I didn't respect her as a mother.

I thought about running away.

Getting a part-time job. Doing anything.

But it was useless.

My mother was a 24/7 surveillance camera. She would show up at my college unannounced to audit me.

She kept her eyes locked on me, driving me like cattle.

If I deviated even slightly, what awaited me was slap after slap, and a tidal wave of verbal abuse.

I couldn't defy her. I didn't dare.

So, I chose to jump off the roof.

I used the most absolute, decisive method to finally find my escape.

I wanted her to cry over my body. I wanted her to repent. I wanted her to admit that her suffocating "love" was wrong.

I wanted to escape her control forever, and ever!

So, looking at the Reaper, I shook my head.

"I don't want a Dream Visitation. Are there any jobs in the Netherworld? Can I earn my own Spirit Dollars?"

The Reaper gave me a sideways glance, like he was looking at a defective product.

"Ghosts like you who commit suicide are classified as 'Self-Destructive Souls.' Down here, you're the equivalent of a high-risk felon. Who's gonna hire you?"

I refused to believe it.

Dragging my weakening soul, I wandered through the gloomy, shadowy alleys, begging for work.

"Get lost! Bad luck!"

Cold rejections slammed into me over and over again.

Without a crypt to shelter me, the spectral wind sliced through my soul like razor blades.

Without Reaper protection, the malicious glares of older, violent ghosts pricked at my back.

But the deepest despair was the agonizing, bone-shattering pain of my fatal fall, repeating itself on an endless loop every single day...

"Ah—!"

Torn apart by the phantom agony, I couldn't help but cry out that name from the bottom of my heart:

"Mom..."

In that split second, a tiny, flickering flame of hope sparked in my despair:

I'm dead... Mom must know she was wrong by now, right?

Those twenty dollars she burns every day... it's probably just because she doesn't know how hard it is down here, right?

That pathetic, desperate little hope gave me the strength to raise a trembling finger and tug at the Reaper's sleeve.

My voice was as thin as a thread:

"Excuse me... where do I go to request a Dream Visitation?"