My Brother Actually "Resurrected" After His Death

Is this the new trend over there?

I mustered a smile, which probably looked more pained than pleasant.

Alex glanced over with a hint of disdain and took a casual sip of his water.

"Hi, I'm Jessica Roberts." I reached out my hand, "Sorry for being late, work was crazy today."

Alex touched my fingertips briefly.

"Actually, Jess, wasn't your brother getting treatment in Italy? Alex might know some really good doctors there since he's worked in an awesome hospital." My friend pushed, trying to make a connection.

I nodded, swallowing hard to fight back tears. "No worries, really, it's all good."

"What was his diagnosis?" Alex asked, breaking the ice.

I paused, "Um, something like neuroblastoma, I think?"

"Neuroblastoma."

"Right," I responded, trying to keep my composure.

Alex seemed intrigued, "How long has he been ill?"

"Years now, he had no choice but to seek treatment abroad eventually."

Somehow, I ended up telling him everything.

"Years?" Alex appeared genuinely taken aback.

"Let's drop it, okay? Let's just order some food." My friend quickly intervened, sensing the tension.

After dinner, she persuaded me to add Alex on WhatsApp.

I added him without even bothering to label his contact—just left it as the smiling face on his profile.

Once home, I immediately messaged my parents to call me when they landed for peace of mind.

The local student I had arranged to pick them up was waiting.

As I sat on my bed lost in thought, a knock at the door snapped me back to reality.

It was my landlady.

"Jess, I hate to bother you at this hour, but your rent is two weeks overdue. Could you pay it now?"

She was always understanding, so I quickly paid through my phone.

"Received, thanks. Oh, and, uh, Jess, I have to sell the apartment, so you've got a week to find a new place. I've sent back the extra rent and your deposit."

She smiled sheepishly and left after a few words.

Once the door shut, tears streamed down my cheeks.

My brother was gone, my parents were away, I was swamped with debt, and now I was about to lose my home.

Lying in bed, my phone chimed again.

"Sorry to intrude, but I had to be upfront—neuroblastoma patients usually don't live long. I think your brother might have been misdiagnosed. Maybe consider a second opinion?"

Seeing that he was typing again under the smiley icon, I replied with irritation, "Yeah, thanks. Really intrusive."

I fell back onto my bed, and the next time I opened my eyes, it was already light out.

There was still no word on my phone.

As I packed, my cousin Katie sent me a photo from an overseas site—a secretive party scene with a man in the center wearing only underwear.

His face was the spitting image of my brother.

"Jess, doesn't the guy in the middle look just like John?"

I zoomed in as much as possible. From every angle, he was the image of my brother.

But he was supposed to be dead!

Then I noticed the post date—it was today!