My father, my mother, and my sister were all dressed in mourning white, crying bitterly in front of my funeral altar.
Around them stood a crowd of relatives and villagers, including the village chief.
They had all come to pay their respects.
When they saw me walk through the gate—alive and breathing—everyone froze.
Their faces drained of color.
“You didn’t expect this, did you?” I sneered coldly. “That I’d still be alive.”
My sister rushed forward in a panic.
“Ryan! Please, let us explain,” she stammered. “Your brother-in-law went out to search for you. We couldn’t find you, so we assumed the worst… That’s why we held a funeral.”
My expression twisted with disbelief.
“It’s only been a day—and you already held a funeral? You couldn’t wait, could you? You were eager to bury me.”
I turned toward the village chief.
“Chef Carter, I’d like to report something: my own family wanted me dead.”
George Landon, the chief of Oakridge, was a stern, upright man, known for his integrity.
He looked troubled.
“Indeed, something doesn’t feel right. Everything happened too quickly.”
“It hasn’t even been a full day,” one of the villagers chimed in. “It’s only been a few hours!”
“Exactly. And he’s the provincial top scorer. Wouldn’t you search harder before declaring him dead?”
More murmurs erupted from the crowd. Doubts were growing.
The village chief’s brows furrowed. “This is suspicious…”
Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise.
“I know exactly why they did it.”
The speaker was a middle-aged man pushing through the crowd. Someone whispered his name.
“It’s Victor Holmes—the village’s biggest taxpayer.”
He was well-known. He owned several real businesses and carried weight in village affairs.
Victor held up his phone.
“Let me show you what this little monster did—what made his parents and sister want him dead.”
He tapped the screen and played a video.
The villagers crowded around to watch. As the footage played, their faces shifted—from confusion to disbelief to burning rage.
When the video ended, the entire crowd turned on me like a mob.
“You shouldn’t be alive!” someone shouted.
Even the village chief, George, flung his cane to the ground and glared at me with fury in his eyes.
I turned toward the screen—and what I saw made my blood run cold.
The video showed a boy who looked exactly like me doing something vile to a young girl.
My eyes widened. My voice cracked.
“I didn’t do that! It’s not me! I was framed!” I shouted.
But no one believed me.
“Beast!”
“Scum!”
“You’re a disgrace to the county!”
Someone hurled a rock at me. It struck my shoulder hard. Pain shot through me.
I scanned the crowd for anyone—anyone—who might believe me.
My sister sat collapsed on the ground, eyes empty.
My brother-in-law stood behind me, a knife pressed against my back.
The villagers stared at me with disgust, as if I were no longer human.
I had never felt so utterly alone.
Victor stepped forward, his lips curled in a mocking smile.
“Admit it, Ryan,” he whispered low enough that only I could hear.
“You’re done this time. My son, Jeremy Holmes, deserved to be the top scorer. But you stole that from him. You think I’d let that slide?”
My heart dropped.
So this was the reason.
Jealousy.
Cold, calculated jealousy.
And the arrogance of power.
I stared at him, my voice steady despite the chaos around me.
“The video is fake. You had someone create it. You used someone who looks like me to ruin me.”
A flicker of surprise flashed across his face—then quickly vanished.
“You’re sharper than I thought,” he said smoothly. “Not just some naive village boy after all.”
He stepped back, calm and smug.
“But it’s far too late for that now, isn’t it?”
