When I Died, My Father was with His Adopted Daughter

When I was brutally murdered by my enemies, my father was busy celebrating my twin sister’s birthday.

He forgot that my birthday was the same day as hers.

When he received my desperate call, his last words to me were, “I’m celebrating your sister’s birthday; we’ll talk later.”

Three days later, he received a report from someone about a dismembered body found in a dumpster.

He and his police colleagues analyzed the pieces and concluded that I had suffered unimaginable abuse.

After an extensive search, they found nearly all parts of my body – except for my head.

Yet he couldn’t deduce that the headless corpse was his daughter.

——

I felt as if I were floating in a dark, suffocating nightmare.

When I regained consciousness, I found my limbs in the hands of an old woman.

Her face was filled with fear and anxiety, as if she had seen something terrifying.

“Help!” She trembled. “While I was rummaging through the trash, I found something… horrible.”

Alarms blared, and soon I felt familiar presences nearby, bringing me a measure of comfort.

It was Dad! I shouted, but no one responded.

“What’s going on?” I heard my father’s anxious voice.

“I found something in the dumpster; when I opened it… it’s human limbs!” the old woman cried out.

“Take me to the scene!” Dad’s voice was tense and anxious.

I heard Dad and his partner, Jerry, rushing over, along with the sirens of patrol cars.

Dad’s expression was grim and heavy under the sunlight, his brow furrowed as if bearing the weight of the world.

Looking into his eyes, which had witnessed countless cases, I saw a profound understanding – an insight only seasoned officers possessed.

“This hand has cigarette burns and signs of having been chopped. This…is an extremely heinous case.”

His voice trembled with shock and anger, as if mourning for the victim.

I stood silently, filled with deep pain and helplessness.

His words sent chills down my spine; I couldn’t bear to imagine the suffering I endured in life.

Under Dad’s instruction, the coroner bent down to examine my remains carefully.

His expression was grave and focused; each touch felt like it was reaching into my soul.

“This person suffered extreme abuse,” the coroner said, his voice heavy with sorrow, documenting the brutal scars.

“I’ve rarely seen such cases.”

I couldn’t express my pain and despair; I could only silently observe everything happening around me.

This case was a massive challenge for Dad and the other officers.

I quietly stood by, witnessing the case unfold.

Suddenly, a young officer found a necklace in one of my hands.

“Sir, look at this!” he called, holding up a blood-stained necklace.

My heart raced as I recognized it – it was the necklace my mother had prepared for me and my sister before we were born!

“Dad, that’s mine! Do you recognize it? It’s from Mom!” I shouted excitedly, hoping for his reaction.

But Dad only glanced briefly. “Hmm, it is a necklace.” His calm tone shattered my hopes.

“Dad, can’t you see? It’s the necklace from my childhood! Mom got it for me and my sister!” I tried to explain, but no matter how I explained, his expression didn’t change.

Right, I wasn’t a person anymore; he couldn’t hear me.

“This necklace has a lot of blood on it; it’s hard to identify its original form,” Dad frowned. “We need to send it for examination; maybe we can find some clues.”

My emotions surged; he truly didn’t recognize it. I could only smile wryly in resignation.