Chapter 1
I last saw my mother three years ago. I was ten when she kissed us three kids for the final time. Her long strawberry-blonde hair, her vivid green eyes, and how young she looked are memories still etched in my mind.
She would be thirty now, had she been alive. Florence doesn’t remember her at all. How could she? She was only seven months old when Mom said goodbye. But the rat remembers her.
Our father drowned at sea the year before, and I can still recall how Mom tried to lift our spirits, and how, in turn, we tried to do the same for her. The reason Mom had to leave was simple: she was seeking vengeance.
The creature that killed Grampa three years earlier had to pay. She told us it was responsible for the deaths of over 102 people in the span of sixteen years. I was the only one who remembered Grampa—he’d always seemed so distant, but he still played with me when he could.
The rat had been born before Grampa passed, though he has no memory of him. They said the creature had been spotted in Brazil, a place that felt as far away as another world to me back then. So, that’s where she went.
I still vividly remember the last thing she said before stepping out the door: “I will love you forevermore, my firstborn daughter." Then she walked away.
For about a week, I stayed with Grandma, helping her take care of the rat and baby Florence. Grandma seemed deeply worried about her daughter’s fate. Despite her concern, she cared for us grandkids with so much love.
Then one evening, while we were watching a quiz show, a sudden news broadcast interrupted. I still remember the reporter—a woman who looked unnaturally polished, with bright golden hair. She announced,
"The creature has struck again. Explorer Danelle Smith has been killed. She was found in a pool of blood and mud."
A photo of Mom appeared on the screen. It was an old picture from when I was about four—she looked thinner then, her hair shorter. That image stirred so many memories. I remembered how difficult I had been the day she took me to Egypt.
I’d run off, causing her and Dad to chase after me. Later, I cried when we visited the pyramids because I found out there was a dead person inside them.
Mom used to call me "My little Panda." It was my special nickname. I was born in China, and as she said, I looked a bit like a panda with my long, dark hair and very fair skin. She used to tease me about my “bamboo eyes” too. My parents had been studying pandas back then.
How I miss those times, and how I wish I could still hear her lovingly call me Panda.
For weeks after that, I stayed very quiet. The rat made more noise than I did, and Florence couldn’t stop crying. Grandma was shattered. She never lets us see her cry, but she does when we’ve fallen asleep.
I know this because last year, I overheard her sobbing in the kitchen. Concerned, I whispered,
“Grandma, what’s wrong?”
She turned to look at me, trying to hide her tears, but it didn’t work. With a heavy sigh, she finally said, “I miss your mother, my daughter... and your grandad, my husband.”
I walked over to her and softly replied, “I miss them too.”
At thirteen, twenty more lives have already been taken by the creature. I often try to decipher a pattern in the killings, but there’s none—just senseless, random acts that leave innocent people as its victims.
We live in a peaceful five-bedroom house on the outskirts of town. I absolutely love it there—the quietness, with only the occasional sound of birds breaking the stillness. Watching them soar against the backdrop of a setting sun feels like such a privilege.
I spend my days helping care for my younger siblings, doing my best to address their little problems. But every night, my thoughts drift back to Mom. I dream of her and wonder where she could be.
