After I Died on the Operating Table

My name is Sophie Franklin. The day my story began was my eighth birthday. When I woke early that morning, sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains and fell on my bedside. I touched the small toy Mom had tucked under my pillow, my heart brimming with hope. Mom and Dad are both forensic pathologists. They always say their work is to ensure that the truth is never hidden. The night before, Mom smiled and told me that once they finished their cases, they would come home to buy me the biggest birthday cake and stay with me to blow out the candles. I waited by the window all morning, but the only message Dad sent was that they were handling a murder case, staking out the murderer, and might be home late. I held the phone, my fingers tracing the screen again and again, wanting to call them, to hear their voices. Grandmother was cooking in the kitchen and called me over to help set the table, but I shook my head, saying I wanted to wait for Father and Mother to come back and set it together. Time passed slowly; outside, the sun was gradually sinking westward, and the unease growing inside me grew stronger. I couldn't hold back any longer and dialed Father's number. The phone rang several times before it was answered. Father's voice was soft, carrying a hint of urgency, and he said: "Sophie, I am busy right now; I'll call you back later, alright?" I pouted, coaxing like a child: "Daddy, I miss you. When will you come home? Today is my birthday." There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then a burst of noise, followed by Mother's startled cry. My heart tightened as I shouted, "Daddy? Mommy? What's wrong?" But on the line was only a busy signal. I gripped the phone, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Grandmother saw my distress and hurried over, asking me what had happened. With tears in my voice, I told Grandmother what had just happened. Her face instantly went pale. Soon after, the doorbell rang. I thought it was Father and Mother returning, so I ran quickly to open the door. But standing there were two men in police uniforms. Their expressions were solemn, and when they saw me, their eyes were full of sympathy. One of the men knelt down and gently patted my head, saying, "Are you Sophie Franklin, Jason Franklin's daughter?" I nodded, my unease reaching its peak. I asked, "Sir, where are my parents? When will they come home?" That uncle sighed, his voice low and somber. "You must be strong. Your parents... were killed by the murderer during their mission." The words—"were killed"—fell on my heart like a heavy hammer. I stood frozen, my mind completely blank, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. I couldn't believe it; the father who had texted me that very morning, the mother who had promised to see me just the day before—they had left me forever. Grandmother fainted on the spot upon hearing those words. I threw myself onto Grandmother, crying and calling out "father, mother," but no one answered me anymore. That day, my birthday cake never arrived; instead, I was met with the cold bodies of my father and mother. The atmosphere at home grew heavy and lifeless. Grandmother wept constantly, and Felix Franklin, my older brother ten years my senior, looked at me with eyes full of hatred. At the funeral, Felix stood before the portraits of our father and mother. I approached to take his hand, but he suddenly shook me off and said bitterly: "It's all your fault! If you hadn't made that call, our father and mother wouldn't have been exposed, and they wouldn't have died!" He pushed me back several steps, and I fell to the ground. A sharp pain stabbed my knee, but the ache in my heart was far worse than any pain in my body. I wanted to explain, to tell him I didn't mean it, but the words caught in my throat and turned into broken sobs.