Chapter 3: The Missing and the Damned

This completely enraged Carl. His face turned red, and he cursed at the camera:

“What’s wrong with farming? If I hadn’t farmed, could I have raised him? Plenty of people succeed without education. It’s his own fault! We just wanted him to stay home, get married, have kids, live well. Everyone in our town does that—how could parents harm their own child?”

His voice cracked. Pride and shame fighting it out. Marsha jumped in, her voice rising.

His wife Marsha also shouted:

“What kind of ghost streamer are you, interfering in our family? I’ll call the police, I’ll sue you, I’m warning you—tell us where our son Danny is, or you’ll be sorry!”

She waved her phone, threatening, but her hands shook. I watched, unblinking.

I shook my head:

“Too late. Danny just jumped to his death. He had depression, crushed by family and society, worn out inside—he couldn’t hold on.”

I said it quietly. The words just hung there. Nobody moved.

The next second, their phone rang.

The shrill ringtone cut through the silence. Carl answered, face draining of color as he listened.

They answered, immediately panicked, hung up, and rushed out.

The camera caught them scrambling, Marsha sobbing, Carl’s hand shaking as he fumbled with his keys. The screen went black.

They didn’t see, in the chat, a string of green text suddenly appeared:

“The day I found the acceptance letter, I realized it wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough—they had hidden my life from me.”

The chat went cold. For a moment, everyone just watched the words, no one daring to type.

The audience questioned me:

“Streamer, you had time to save him, didn’t you?”

“If you’d told us the address, we could’ve called the police—maybe he wouldn’t have died.”

“If you didn’t want to help, you could’ve said so. Watching someone die is too cruel.”

“Unfollowed. The streamer is no different from those parents—both are butchers, indifferent to life!”

The comments stung, but I let them pass. Some things can’t be fixed by intervention.

They don’t understand.

Life’s a blank sheet. You can draw on it yourself, or let someone else scribble all over it. Either way, it shapes your fate. Sometimes a butterfly flaps its wings, and a hurricane hits the other side of the world. Sometimes, an apple drops and Newton gets a new law. Danny’s time was up, and he was determined to die. The Reaper had called his name—changing life and death without permission would throw the world out of balance.

I took out the Mirror of Reminiscence again to check on Carl and Marsha.

The glass shimmered, revealing a cold, gray morning in a run-down part of town. I watched as their story reached its end.

Danny’s suicide location was an abandoned building in the next town over.

It was the kind of place nobody visits unless they’re lost or looking for trouble. The police tape fluttered in the wind, the only sign that something tragic had happened there.

When Marsha arrived and saw the bloody mess, she nearly fainted.

She collapsed to her knees, wailing, her cries echoing off the crumbling walls. Carl stood over her, silent and shaking.

“Son, I gave birth to you, raised you, haven’t even enjoyed your support yet and you leave me—how could you be so heartless! Why are you so stubborn? You let me down. I gave birth and raised you for nothing.”

Her grief turned inward. All about what she’d lost. Never once reaching for understanding.

Carl trembled as he lit a cigarette, then pointed at the body and cursed, wailing:

“If I’d known you’d be a debt collector, I should’ve strangled you at birth. My family line is over—Danny, you’re ungrateful, you’ve ended our family!”

His words bounced off the empty walls. The chat watched, silent, the weight of it settling over everyone.

Seeing this, the chat was silent for a long time.

No one typed. The screen filled with candle emojis and broken hearts.

“Don’t blame the streamer—with parents like this, he was doomed.”

“Some parents just have kids to carry on the family, like it’s a chore, not caring what their kids want.”

“So suffocating.”

“Will they ever reflect on themselves?”

The chat went quiet. Candle emojis everywhere.

I summoned Danny’s soul, asking if he had any unfulfilled wishes.

His spirit appeared, thin and pale, eyes tired but gentle. He hung there, just outside the light.

This broken soul said:

“Being human is too hard. I don’t want to come back next life—I want to be a cat. Also, I saved $15,000 for my parents’ pension. I hope Ghost God can give it to them.”

His words were soft, almost apologetic. Even in death, he couldn’t quite let go of the people who hurt him most.

See, even when children leave their parents in fear and anger, they still can’t bring themselves to hate them.

That’s family for you. The ties that choke are the hardest to cut.

So, in front of the audience, I told Lila:

“Go give that President of the Looks League a dream. Warn him not to try to keep that $15,000, or the ghost girl will visit him every night. And make sure to appear as you did after the car accident.”

I grinned. Poetic justice, delivered nightly.

“I’d just keep it—spring nights every night.”

“Her post-accident look—how scary is that? You have some heavy tastes!”

“Hahaha, I’m dead—this guy is really unlucky.”

“Unlucky? This is a blessing—he gets to work for the afterlife, like unofficial staff.”

“Do you want this blessing?”

The chat was back to its usual chaos, the mood lighter, jokes flying fast.

To lighten the mood, I randomly accepted a fan’s call.

My finger hovered over the next request, and I picked one at random—sometimes, you just gotta roll the dice.

The fan’s ID was “Emma’s Mom,” a young mother.

Her video feed flickered on, showing a woman in her late twenties, hair pulled back in a messy bun, the kind of tired only new parents know.

Her face was pale—like she’d been crying. Her red, swollen eyes were full of anxiety and pain.

She clutched a baby blanket in her lap, her hands twisting the fabric nervously.

“Streamer, my child vomits everything he eats. The hospital can’t find anything wrong. Can you see if a ghost is disturbing him?”

Her voice was small, almost pleading. The chat went quiet, waiting for my answer.

I watched quietly for a while, then frowned:

“Your philtrum is deep and straight, tear troughs full and bright, eyebrows clear. From your face, you’re upright, blessed, have a good marriage, harmonious children, healthy and promising offspring.”

“You’re a rare lucky person. Maybe your child is just a picky eater. I suggest taking him to McDonald’s—see if he’ll eat there.”

I couldn’t help but grin as I said it. Sometimes, the answer is just that simple.

The chat burst out laughing.

“Hahaha, the streamer is Dr. House reborn.”

“Right, my sister’s kid was the same—took him to McDonald’s, he ate two burgers and two nuggets.”

“First time hearing so many good words from the streamer—this mom is so lucky, her kids must be so happy.”

“So happy, happily picky.”

“Emma’s Mom, just admit your cooking is bad—let our bro cook next time.”

...the chat kept going.

Emma’s Mom saw the chat, smiled through her tears, then asked again worriedly:

“Streamer, is it true?”

Her voice trembled, but there was hope in her eyes now.

I smiled: “It’s true. Go check.”

I gave her a thumbs-up for good measure, and she wiped her eyes and laughed.

After hanging up, I connected with a viewer named “Mr. Lonely.”

His profile pic was a moody selfie, but when the camera came on, he looked even better—movie star handsome. Jawline for days.

His avatar was a selfie, and he looked even more handsome on camera.

He wore a crisp button-down, hair styled just so, the kind of guy who always knows his best angle.

“Streamer, my wife has been missing for three years. Can you tell me where she is?”

His voice was smooth, practiced, but there was a tremor underneath, like he’d rehearsed this speech a hundred times.

Mr. Lonely wasn’t just handsome—he had the poise of a successful man, and even shed a couple of tears talking about his feelings.

He dabbed at his eyes, just enough to show emotion without smudging his image. The chat went wild.

The chat exploded.

“Ahhh, isn’t he the guy who went viral for searching for his wife for three years? His Insta’s just wife pics. So devoted.”

“Mr. Lonely, three years and still nothing? Maybe your wife ran off with another man. Look at me, I’m better than your wife.”

“Tch, I don’t believe men like this exist. Maybe he killed his wife.”

“Don’t you think he’s fishing for sympathy?”

“Things can’t be that simple. The streamer looks relaxed—maybe there’s another truth.”

But Mr. Lonely got angry at the chat, pulled out three stacks of cash, and waved them at the camera:

“How can you slander my relationship with my wife? My wife loves me, I love her—I want no one else. Whoever can find my wife, I’ll give them everything I have.”

He slammed the cash on the table. The chat went nuts, half calling him a hero, half calling him a fraud.

I raised an eyebrow:

“But I think it’s better your wife is dead!”

I let it hang there. His face froze, the mask slipping for just a second.

Mr. Lonely froze, then jutted his jaw and frowned:

“I’m warning you—don’t talk nonsense, or I’ll find you and skin you.”

His voice was cold, almost threatening. The chat buzzed with nervous energy.

“My wife had depression, but she said I gave her a sense of home, healed her, so she couldn’t have left me. Plus, we knew each other since we were young, lived happily—there’s no way I killed her. Only her parents opposed us—they must have hidden her. Just tell me where she is.”

He rattled off the details like a defense attorney, eyes darting off-screen as if reading from a script.

“Streamer is crazy! How can you curse someone’s wife?”

“Just joined—does the streamer always talk like this?”

“Handsome guy, don’t jut your jaw—it’s greasy.”

“Why did her parents oppose—was it social status?”

“Sick of girls’ parents these days—want house, car, dowry. Isn’t that just selling their daughter?”

...chat kept rolling.

I glanced at his right side and continued: