Become a Dad Lottery Machine
Language: en
I was the only one in my family cursed—or blessed—with the ability to reset my life upon death. Even before I could properly talk, my mother would cover the grimy walls with lottery numbers written in charcoal, forcing me to memorize them. If I mispronounced or misremembered a number, my mother would take a needle and meticulously stitch the incorrect digits onto my arm, each jab a painful reminder, meant to "deepen my memory." By the time I turned six, I had memorized every lottery number from every drawing since my birth. For the first time in my life, my father actually took me to…