On 26th February 2020, four pair of hands gripped a piece of parchment in their hands. A purple-inked, distorted circle demanded their attention from the corner of the parchment.

Some shed tears on it, some intended to tear it to pieces, some tore it and mixed it with the cat food for their pet cat, Mitten—some did nothing.

This happened for four consecutive days. They did the same thing for four consecutive days. But they knew it wouldn't end.

Sophie settled on the chair before her desk, rubbing her hands together. Outside, the moon was dancing with the stars, sending her hope in the night creatures which crawled and hooted around her windows.

Cracking her knuckles, she began, her fingers gliding on the keys.

"Dear gentlemen and gentlewomen and the likes between them,

I can't believe it's 29th February. It repeats after every four years. But sadly, I won't be able to help you deal with your kind problems, won't be able to post my comic strips on this blog—because today I've completed my five years here.

Five years of being with you all, my readers, my friends.

That's why today I have a special surprise, a gift from my behalf, to you for helping me attain the number of friends I couldn't possibly even imagine.

Below is a will, you see, drawn up secretly by my dead sister. The photo wouldn't get attached, so here I'm writing it. Word by word.

Now, during the will hearing, there were four beneficiaries who refused—or forgot to attend. I didn't care.

I haven't been able to establish contact with three of them, though, as if they are souls fading fast, unknowingly, like my sister. So can you all, 2,500 of my classmates, help me deliver this post on my blog to them?

Moreover, from today, I quit.

...Now, I return to the special beneficiaries of my possessions.

I request Sophie Valentine, my sister, to perform all the below listed things—

I bequeath the glass piece, treasured in an ivory box, to Ken Maxwell, for it was his belonging at first. It was due to him that I saw the manifestation of an unbridled anger—wrath over the fact that his father didn't chose him as an heir to their enterprise, rather his brother, Liam, was given the place.

Ken Maxwell, that's the moment when I learned the true hurt caused by words like 'You witch', 'Die', 'You stole my life', 'You stole what I deserved'. I didn't know the Constitution prevented me from becoming Liam's girlfriend, that it was a crime. But at that moment, I knew...it became a crime.

Don't worry, that glass was first investigated by the police, you know, for DNA test, to ensure that it was my blood spread across it, and your skin that got torn when you threw it at me as a prank in front of the whole school. Then I took it home and used it everyday to etch those words on my thighs. Thank you.

Next, Katherine Selvie, I bequeath to you the tattered rebozo scarf that had been perched on a mannequin in my room for a very long time. I believe that was the only clothing I could salvage from your brutal attack. I wasn't surprised.

I mean, an eye for an eye, right? I tattled you off to the professor about your cheating in mid-terms, even when I explicitly told you not to snatch my paper—and in return for that, you gave me my birthday gift that day in the form of those torn clothes I'd given another girl to take care of.

It was my mother's, you see, my dead mother. It was the only belonging, sadly, my family ever had of her.

Next, Frank Graham, the Impulsive, I bequeath to you a series of clips that I had the pleasure of stealing from school.

In those clips, you may find out why you never made it to the varsity football team. Your kicks, skills, were terrible, but somehow, they managed to bruise my back, broke my ribs—maybe because it was I, who was malnutritioned.

You see, there aren't any CCTVs outside girl washrooms, so it was a perfect place for you to vent, no? Many fell victim; but none rose their head. Including me...but I must thank the ever devilish one, one of your nightstands, Clara Ray, daughter of a guard in our school.

Ring a bell? I hope it does. Had I not become your punching bag and had I not been present in school for the Christmas Party, you would've never ruined my first kiss and beaten my boyfriend black and blue.

You gave me the reason to believe that money buys hundreds of lies and feeds them into a deaf's mouth. Thank you...

Last and foremost, I bequeath everything I own to the school charity, except my photo album, diary and 29th February on the calendar as a mark of immense guilt, misery and hatred to my dearest, Sophie Valentine.

You were every bit of the goddess, the sister, our parents portrayed you to be growing up. But remind me, my dear, did my cries not reach you—or was it embarassing for you to watch your little sister's face scrunched up, sobbing, being bullied?

Was the downfall in your social status so dreadful a thought that you never stopped Katherine from tarnishing our mother's only possession? You were there, I knew it. She told me, you know, like a little girl caught lying.

Are you happy now that there's no one in school who bears the same surname as you?

When I proceed towards a grave, I'll remember only your emotionless face as a response to my suicide threat. I'll remember your carelessness. I'll remember every inch of your smirk, your hand around Ken while befriending him.

I hope you all got what you wanted.

Somewhere, phones started ringing; worries were poured out of mouth. But every one of them would remember that 29th February occurs every four years—the next time, her letters would start.

Till their death.