The ceiling looks exactly the same.

  White paint, slightly yellowed at the corners. A faint crack near the fan that I used to stare at every night before falling asleep. The fan itself spins lazily above me, making that soft clicking sound I had completely forgotten about.

  This is my first home. The biggest and most luxurious house I have ever lived in.

  A double storey landed terrace house.

  Compared to the apartment I would later spend most of my life in, this place feels like a mansion. Even as a child, I remember classmates telling me I was a rich kid. At that age, I did not even understand what rich meant. I only knew that our house was bigger than most, and that my father drove a Mercedes Benz.

  I am in the master bedroom. The room where the three of us slept together, my father, my mother, and me. I am their only son.

  By the time my mother met my father, he was already in his fifties, maybe even early sixties. I never knew the exact number. To me, he was simply “Father,” a calm presence in the house, someone who rarely raised his voice and almost never said no when I asked for something.

  He passed away shortly after I completed Primary Four.

  That was decades ago.

  My memory of him is blurred in many ways, like an old photo left in the sun for too long. But some things remain crystal clear. His easygoing personality. His laughter. The way he never got angry at me, even when I probably deserved it.

  And the cigarettes.

  He was a heavy smoker. I still remember the day in school when the teacher taught us about how dangerous smoking was. The diagrams of blackened lungs terrified me. I rushed home after class, determined to save my father’s life with my newly acquired scientific knowledge.

  “Smoking will make your lungs black and you will die,” I told him with absolute confidence.

  He laughed.

  He said he had been smoking for decades. It was impossible to just quit like that.

  I did not understand back then. Now I do. Addiction. Withdrawal. Habit ingrained into the body and mind. Things a child cannot comprehend.

  I turn my head.

  It is 7 a.m.

  Of course it is.

  I always woke up at exactly 7 a.m. as a child, like a human alarm clock with no snooze button.

  The first thing I used to do every single morning was turn on the PlayStation and play the same Street Fighter game. From first stage to final stage. Every day. As if the boss might finally respect me for my dedication.

  There was no internet back then. No smartphone. No endless scrolling. Entertainment meant either the PlayStation or my father.

  If he was free.

  Most mornings, he would lie on the sofa downstairs reading his newspaper. Thick stacks of paper folded neatly. The smell of ink mixed with cigarette smoke.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  While he read, I would get bored and wander toward the giant fish tank in the living room.

  That fish tank was enormous. It felt like an underwater kingdom to me.

  When boredom peaked, I would lightly bump my head against the glass.

  Why?

  I have no idea.

  Perhaps I was testing the limits of physics. Or my skull.

  One day, the fish tank actually broke.

  Water exploded across the floor. Fish flopped helplessly on the tiles. Chaos everywhere.

  The fish died.

  My forehead was perfectly fine.

  Not even a scratch.

  Maybe all those earlier practice bumps strengthened it. A natural childhood training program. Forget martial arts. I trained my forehead.

  I slowly sit up on the bed.

  Everything feels smaller. My hands. My legs. The proportions of the room. The world has shrunk, or rather, I have.

  I take a deep breath.

  Time to confirm.

  I walk downstairs carefully, each step sending a strange mix of nostalgia and disbelief through my chest.

  The living room opens before me.

  The fish tank is there. Intact.

  Father is on the sofa, exactly where he always used to be, newspaper spread open, cigarette resting between his fingers.

  Mother is in the kitchen area, busy with house chores.

  This is real.

  When Father sees me, he smiles.

  “Come here,” he says casually. “Help me scratch my foot.”

  I freeze.

  Yes. I remember this.

  He likes it when I use my tiny pointy fingernails to poke and scratch the sole of his foot. I would randomly poke everywhere, as if mapping unknown territory.

  As an adult with full knowledge of hygiene and bacteria, I hesitate.

  His foot.

  My kindergarten hands.

  No sanitizer in sight.

  But I cannot exactly say, “Sorry Father, I am concerned about microbial contamination.”

  So I kneel down and start poking.

  He sighs in satisfaction.

  “This one good,” he says.

  I suppress the urge to laugh.

  While performing this prestigious foot massage service, I casually ask, “Father, what day is it today?”

  He lowers the newspaper slightly. “Saturday.”

  Of course.

  Weekend.

  Otherwise I would be preparing for school.

  I remember how I used to constantly ask my mother, “Is today the last day I go to school? I don’t want to go anymore.”

  She never gave me a definite answer. I just kept going.

  Even as a child, I already disliked labor.

  Now that I think about it, adult me eventually achieved the dream of quitting my job permanently. It seems kindergarten me was already planning early retirement.

  If today is Saturday, that means I have the entire day to plan.

  Two key people come to mind immediately.

  First, Father.

  I need to talk to him before his business collapses. Before betrayal from his close partners. Before the chain of events that eventually crushes him.

  In my memory, once those unfortunate events happened, there was not much time left in his life.

  Second, Monica.

  My mother’s best friend.

  A capable woman who amassed significant wealth throughout her life. Her only regret, perhaps, was never having a child of her own. She adopted several children. Most turned out… questionable.

  Except one girl. That girl grew up to become a fine and successful adult.

  Monica helped my mother stand back up after Father passed. She introduced her to buy the apartment I would live in until age thirty-one. She helped recover whatever remained of my father’s inherited wealth.

  One of Father’s close associates, an evil lawyer, exploited loopholes in the law and redirected large portions of the estate to himself and another man. The longer we failed to act correctly, the more they siphoned away.

  I never knew the full legal mechanics. Only the surface.

  I still remember my mother bringing me to meet one of those men. She begged him to at least return half.

  Half.

  She had been a housewife her entire marriage. Without that wealth as a buffer, planning the next step was terrifying.

  When things fell apart, she got her hands dirty.

  She learned to sell bread at the morning market. Waking at 2 a.m., collecting supplies, arranging the stall before 7 a.m. Customers would fade around 1 p.m., and she would return home exhausted.

  Year after year.

  I helped occasionally. I know how hard it was.

  All I knew back then was that I must not fail her. I had to study properly. Get good grades. That was my duty.

  Now, I have knowledge no kindergarten child should possess.

  Finance. Economy. Stock market cycles. Business risks. Addiction. Estate planning. Office politics.

  Convincing Father may not be difficult.

  After all, no normal five-year-old walks up and discusses macroeconomic trends.

  I stop scratching his foot.

  My heart begins to pound.

  I stand up slowly.

  “Father,” I say, trying to keep my tone steady, “do you have a moment? I would like to talk to you one to one in the room upstairs. It is important.”

  He lowers the newspaper completely this time.

  He looks at me with mild surprise.

  And curiosity.