On New Year's Eve, Frank and his girlfriend met with William and Sabrina at a newly opened Mexican restaurant downtown to celebrate the coming year.
The restaurant was warmly lit. Outside, the streets were alive with holiday lights and crowds, voices rising and blending into a festive hum.
For most of the evening, Frank and Sabrina talked about their recent dreams. William sat beside them, occasionally exchanging a few polite words with Frank's girlfriend.
Lowering his voice, Frank said,
"I saw a post on Facebook—someone from that flight, talking about the emergency landing."
"There were comments too," he continued. "Several people claiming they were on the same flight."
There was a flicker of excitement in his eyes.
"Once I finish my current exhibition, I'm going to reach out to them."
The excitement spread quickly across the table.
The new year approached. Glasses were raised.
"Happy New Year."
Sabrina smiled and joined the toast.
But beneath the surface, something else stirred quietly inside her—an unfamiliar anticipation.
She hoped—there really were others, people like them, caught in the same recurring dreams.
—
Back home, she removed her makeup, washed up, and let the silence of the room settle around her.
She lay down and fell asleep quickly.
The dream began without resistance.
In the kitchen—
The twins were arguing over a few pieces of cookies.
"They're mine!"
"You already had one!"
The older sister snapped at them, her voice edged with impatience and fatigue.
Suddenly, the boy shoved his sister.
A burst of crying filled the kitchen.
"It's Tingting's fault—she didn't divide them properly!" he protested.
"I want a drink!"
The younger girl cried, "Give mine back!"
It was an ordinary scene.
Noisy. Chaotic. Real.
Lihua stood there, shaking her head gently.
She took a few more cookies from the cupboard, poured drinks, and set them down.
Then she turned and walked back into the study.
The computer screen was on.
Students' assignments filled the screen.
Life continued.
Then—
A sharp banging sound came from the kitchen.
The water in the pot had boiled dry. Eggshells had burst open.
Lihua rushed in.
Steam dissipated, revealing the mess.
Another flurry of motion—cleaning, wiping, preparing lunch.
Just fragments of everyday life.
And then—
The phone in the living room rang.
Shrill. Persistent.
—
Sabrina woke abruptly.
Sunday morning.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains.
The echoes of the children—laughing, crying, arguing—still lingered in her ears.
The feeling of reality hadn't faded.
She closed her eyes, replaying it—
Cookies.
Eggs.
Her phone vibrated.
Frank.
Only one line:
"I've got some new leads…"
—
Monday morning.
Sabrina walked into the office, turned on her computer, and saw the revised proposal Susan had sent. She skimmed it—few changes.
Before she could say anything, the client arrived.
In the meeting room, she gestured for Susan to lead.
She hadn't slept well. Her mind felt drained, unfocused.
The client was from Hong Kong, having recently purchased a second-hand house. The request was clear: redesign the front and back yard, modernize the interior—especially the kitchen and bathrooms—with brighter, more open lighting.
After Susan finished, there was a brief silence.
The client shook his head slightly.
"This revised plan still doesn't meet our expectations. The master bathroom feels too dim, and the material choices lack originality."
Polite, but firm.
The proposal was rejected.
It would need to be revised again.
—
After the client left, Susan followed Sabrina into her office.
She was clearly dissatisfied.
"I think this version is already much better than the last one."
"Maybe they just don't know what they want."
Sabrina didn't respond immediately.
Susan was older, trained at a well-known design school in China. Solid technical foundation. Strong self-respect. Strong opinions.
Years ago, she and her husband had immigrated to Australia, then later to the U.S. for work. Their marriage ended after long periods of separation.
She raised her daughter alone.
The girl was exceptional—top academic performance, awards in swimming and ballroom dance. Later, she was admitted to a prestigious university.
Sabrina had met her a few times.
She had almost never seen her smile.
Except once—
Before a holiday.
A client had gifted Sabrina a box of cosmetics.
She had passed it on to Emily, who was waiting for her mother after work.
That day, the girl's lips curved—just slightly.
Only once.
Years later, it remained the only time Sabrina had seen something close to a smile on her face.
Later, she heard that the girl had been under immense pressure. Emotional instability. Recurring depression.
When Sabrina saw her again, she often wore wristbands.
Sabrina never asked.
Some things were not hers to touch.
—
Susan was the most senior in the team.
Yet her proposals had the lowest approval rate.
Technically sound—but lacking sensitivity to evolving trends.
Truthfully, Sabrina wasn't satisfied with her.
But every time she thought about Susan's situation, she hesitated.
And Susan seemed to sense that.
Whenever Sabrina pointed out issues, she would say:
"I've done my best."
It sounded sincere.
And ended the conversation.
Today was no different.
She couldn't accept the client's dissatisfaction.
Even saw it as unreasonable.
Communication stalled.
—
After work, Sabrina packed up and left.
Susan stayed behind, revising the plan.
Outside, night had already fallen.
A quiet irritation settled in Sabrina's chest.
Not just toward Susan.
But toward herself.
A deeper fatigue—
From hesitation.
From blurred boundaries.
She realized something, suddenly:
Compassion is not the same as fairness.
And she had been absorbing the cost of her own indecision.
—
That night, the air was cool.
Her phone lit up—a message from the client:
"Looking forward to the new proposal."
Polite. Even considerate.
They weren't being difficult.
They knew what they wanted.
She didn't.
She had been making excuses for Susan:
—She's older
—Immigration is hard
—Single mother
—Her daughter
—Life is already difficult
But none of that should be borne by the team.
Management is not charity.
The realization was uncomfortable:
Her "understanding" of Susan—
was also avoidance.
Avoiding conflict.
Avoiding clarity.
"I've done my best."
Where is the boundary of "best"?
She had never asked.
Because she was afraid.
Afraid of hurting someone already fragile.
But if standards bend for one person—
is that fair to others?
To the client?
Even—
to Susan?
Long-term tolerance does not protect someone.
It keeps them where they are.
She had always thought firmness was cold.
Now she saw:
Clarity is respect.
Vagueness is erosion.
—
That night, William worked late.
Sabrina had no appetite.
A small glass of whiskey.
Restless.
Tomorrow, she would speak with Susan.
Calmly. Specifically. Professionally.
Not about emotion—
about standards.
—
In her sleep—
Her mother appeared.
Carrying minced pork and fresh fennel.
"We should make dumplings," she said, sorting vegetables. "Make extra. Haitao is going to Tibet next month with a medical team. Freeze some for him."
The kitchen filled with the faint scent of fennel.
Lihua chopped meat.
Steady. Rhythmic.
Then her mother said, almost casually:
"Tingting is getting older… maybe it's time to send her away?"
The knife paused.
Years ago, it had been her mother who pushed for adoption.
No children after years of marriage.
Pressure. Whispered judgments.
They adopted Tingting.
Three years later—
Lihua became pregnant.
With twins.
Tingting already understood.
Too much.
Too early.
—
"I'm not sending her away," Lihua said quietly.
"She's my child."
A pause.
"Haitao wouldn't agree either."
The water boiled.
No more words.
Some bonds aren't blood.
They're built—
through presence,
through response,
through time.
—
"Tingting won't go… she won't go…"
The whisper echoed in the dark.
—
William opened his eyes.
"You're dreaming again?"
Sabrina stirred.
"I'm fine."
But the voice lingered.
—
Morning.
She couldn't sleep anymore.
Cold water on her face.
Awake.
Today—she would talk to Susan.
Face to face.
She needed a decision.
Standing before the mirror, she realized—
what she feared wasn't conflict.
It was being the one who decides.
—
At the table, she wrote:
—Client expectations
—Design gaps
—Revision direction
—Team collaboration
—Clear deadline
Then added:
—Focus on standards, not emotion.
For the first time—
her mind felt quiet.
—
Saturday morning.
William packed for a business trip.
After breakfast, Sabrina did yoga.
Then the gym. Running. Sauna.
For the first time in days—
she felt fully awake.
—
That evening, Vivian called—inviting her to a fashion show next week.
After the call, Frank rang.
Excited.
One of the passengers he had contacted—Daniel.
A resident doctor in Washington.
Same dreams.
Same repetition.
They had arranged to meet next month in New York.
Sabrina sat upright.
"Which city?" she asked.
"Beijing."
"And his role?"
"ER doctor. Near a park. He remembers the hospital layout. Old equipment."
Her chest tightened.
A memory surfaced—
Haitao.
Lihua's husband.
He had complained about outdated equipment.
Unstable lighting.
Handwritten schedules.
"Daniel said," Frank continued, "there was a blackout during a storm. Generator delay."
Sabrina's breath slowed.
Storm.
Blackout.
School blackout.
Hospital blackout.
Silence.
"We need to meet him," Frank said.
"Yes."
Soft.
Certain.
—
After the call, she sat still.
If three people—
dreamed the same era,
different lives,
shared events—
Then this wasn't imagination.
It was—
a puzzle.
Scattered.
—
Her phone lit again.
"Daniel saw a woman," Frank wrote.
"In the hospital corridor. Waiting. Gray coat. Very calm."
Sabrina's fingers tightened.
Lihua.
She had worn that coat often.
The room was so quiet—
she could hear her own heartbeat.