In the morning, Lihua brought some fresh fruit to the hospital. She sat by the bedside, washed the fruit, cut it into small pieces, and gently fed them to Hongmei.
The swelling from the surgery hadn't subsided. Hongmei's face was badly distorted, her body weak and fragile. Yet she forced herself to open her mouth, slowly swallowing the fruit her sister offered.
Lihua spoke softly, coaxing her, "Eat a little more. It will boost your immunity, and you'll recover soon."
Even she wasn't sure how true her words were, but she repeated them nonetheless, as if continuous encouragement could actually help her sister's body heal faster.
The post-operative inflammation persisted. Hongmei's fever and night sweats continued, with much of her body exposed from beneath the blanket. Lihua got up and gently covered her with it.
The door opened.
Michael walked in. He had just dropped his daughter off at school and rushed back to the hospital. Seeing Lihua tucking Hongmei in, he immediately approached and pulled the blanket away.
"She's burning up. We need to cool her down—she can't stay covered!"
His words came out quickly, his tone urgent and anxious.
Lihua didn't argue. She silently stepped aside.
In the afternoon, Michael brought his daughter, Clara, to the hospital. The little girl hovered at the bedside, repeatedly asking her mother when they could go home.
While Michael spoke to the doctor outside, Lihua took a chocolate peanut sandwich cookie—Hongmei's favorite—from the drawer and handed it to Clara, hoping to calm the child and lighten the tense atmosphere in the room.
As she wiped sweat from the slumbering Hongmei, a sudden "thud" came from behind.
Lihua spun around.
Clara had collapsed, her body convulsing.
Frozen in place, Lihua screamed.
Michael and the doctors rushed in. The doctor's face went pale upon seeing the cookie in Clara's hand. "She ate this? Peanuts! We need to resuscitate her immediately!"
The ward erupted into chaos.
Lihua's mind went blank. She stood there, helpless, watching as the medical staff carried the child away.
Michael leaned over Hongmei, speaking rapidly in her ear. Lihua couldn't understand all of it—her English was limited—but she grasped the gist: there was nothing she could do here; she might even cause trouble. Perhaps she should leave…
The next morning, Sabrina woke with tears still clinging to the corners of her eyes. She vaguely remembered the post-surgery scene of Hongmei from her dream.
It was her birthday. She had plans to celebrate with William at an Italian restaurant—the same place where they had their first date. When she arrived, William was already there, seated and ordering. Two glasses of wine were served, and he handed her a small gift box.
Inside was a Tiffany white-gold necklace with a key pendant.
Last year, they had passed by the Tiffany & Co store, and Sabrina had tried on this necklace. She loved its design—the key symbolizing the opening of a heart—but hadn't bought it, thinking it too expensive. Tonight, receiving it brought a wave of emotion. She rose to kiss William and held his hand tightly.
Having been together for years, Sabrina understood that William wasn't one for grand romantic gestures. His life was simple—weekends spent golfing with old friends, steady and uneventful—but it brought her a rare sense of stability and security.
Her parents had divorced when she was in elementary school. At sixteen, she went to the U.S. alone for study, and her mother visited only twice. She rarely returned home during breaks, unwilling to hear her mother complain about her father. Her mother, a general manager of a joint venture, was formidable in business but lacked practical life skills. Sabrina grew up mostly with her grandmother, distant from her mother, instinctively resisting any affection. Her father's presence was also scarce, leaving her with a deep-rooted longing for stability.
With William, that sense of security was real. No matter how lonely or anxious she had felt in the past, life now had a tangible warmth and steadiness.
Lihua booked her flight to return home in two days.
Before going to the hospital, she packed some daily essentials for Hongmei, bought flowers, and prepared disposable items—almost as if bracing for an inevitable farewell.
Hongmei's facial swelling had begun to subside. Her eyes could open wider, and though still weak, she no longer looked as pitiful as before. She even reassured her sister:
"Lihua, don't worry. I'll get through this."
Lihua looked at her frail sister on the hospital bed, a tightening feeling in her chest. She knew Hongmei well—strong-willed, stubborn, never showing weakness.
After finalizing her divorce, Hongmei had moved out immediately, first sharing an apartment with friends, then living with Michael. Later, she made a bigger decision: studying fashion design in Paris. She knew domestic credentials alone wouldn't suffice to establish herself in New York.
After completing her studies, she returned to work at a fashion brand, starting as a design assistant, later promoted to assistant director, and gradually designing select items. The company helped her secure a green card, but Hongmei had achieved this independence without relying on Michael. Independence was her bottom line.
Looking at her sister now—once confident and proud, now pale and post-surgery—Lihua silently prayed. Perhaps this near-stubborn resilience would carry her through.
On Friday afternoon, Sabrina received a text from Vivian, asking if she was free Saturday night to join a small VIP event.
It was organized by the Chinese designer Clara, whose fashion show they had recently attended. The event was modest, limited to a few VIPs, with some exclusive pieces sold to benefit a breast cancer charity.
Sabrina agreed—she had no other plans, and after consecutive weeks of work, she needed a break.
On Saturday evening, she went with Vivian. The venue was small, yet beautifully curated, with layered lighting, subtle shadows, and an elegant ambiance.
The attendees were few but impeccably stylish. Compared to them, Sabrina appeared hurried and disheveled, having spent the day catching up on projects, leaving hair tied carelessly and forgetting to remove her glasses.
While examining the pieces, a small, intricately handwoven bag caught her eye. Its zipper was adorned with a Chinese knot tassel that swayed gently—a subtle blend of Eastern charm and elegance.
As she bent down to look closer, the young designer approached.
She suddenly froze, staring at Sabrina with a gaze that seemed locked onto something.
"You look exactly like my aunt… when she was young."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"Really… and those square glasses… it's uncanny."
Her eyes didn't blink, as if verifying a memory, traversing time itself.
The room fell silent.
Softly, she asked, "May I hug you?"
Sabrina was momentarily stunned but nodded.
The embrace was gentle, carrying an unexplainable warmth.
Clara refused payment for the bag.
"I'm glad you like my design—consider it a gift. For my 'young aunt.'"
On the way home, Sabrina felt a strange, lingering impression. Clara's gaze, misty and almost tearful, left an indelible mark. It wasn't mere politeness—it was as if, for an instant, she existed in someone's memory as a piece of tenderness from the past.
Tomorrow, Daniel would arrive in New York. Frank had arranged to meet him tomorrow night. Excitement and anticipation kept Sabrina restless.
In the dim bedroom, Lihua and Haitao discussed Hongmei's condition.
As a senior neurosurgeon, Haitao was not optimistic about Hongmei's surgery outcome. Michael insisted on bringing her home to recuperate. After several rounds of chemotherapy and complete hair loss, Hongmei was fragile. Haitao suggested that if Michael insisted on home care, surrounded by attentive family support, it could be a reasonable choice.
Lihua remained silent, her hair now streaked with white—a truth she could not share with her mother, unwilling to cause her undue worry.
Three children burst into the room, arguing over which shoes to wear the next day. Tingting gave Yangyang an old pair of sneakers, while he insisted on the new ones their mother had bought in New York.
Watching the lively kids, Lihua's heart was heavy, yet she knew life must go on.
In the depths of a bar, low and distant music reverberated.
The Didgeridoo hummed, deep and steady, as if flowing from the earth's core. The Djembe drums struck slowly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat—or the breathing of an ancient ritual.
The sounds were mysterious, distant, stirring dust and memory, evoking a primeval call that made listeners hold their breath.
Sabrina arrived early. Soon, Frank and a tall, lean man entered and joined her. Frank introduced him: Daniel, a fellow passenger from their flight. Daniel swirled his drink, savoring the music—it reminded him of childhood evenings with his African-American grandmother.
A year ago, he had broken up with a girlfriend working at the same hospital and moved to D.C. He enjoyed the nomadic feeling of life, even if his work rarely allowed it.
He had once read an online story: a girl discovered she was "never pregnant," despite being two months along before a flight. Official records confirmed a mid-flight emergency landing. Flight time should have been 13 hours; with delays, his watch showed 16 hours. Where did those extra three hours go? A temporal gap? A quantum branching? Were they survivors, or had they been replaced?
In the bar, low conversations mixed with glass clinks and drum rhythms.
Sabrina closed her eyes. Memories of her mother, Lihua, Hongmei, and her present life surfaced. Time stretched and compressed, memory and reality, dream and parallel intersecting in the same space.
When she opened her eyes at Frank and Daniel, she exhaled softly, realizing she was no longer merely an observer. She was tied to dreamlike Lihua and these fragmented timelines by a strange, unseen force.
Outside, the night was deep. Streetlights flickered. The Didgeridoo's low hum brushed across rooftops and her heart.
Back at her apartment, Sabrina took off her coat and tossed her bag on the sofa. Nightlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting fragmented shadows. Exhausted, she sat on the couch, her mind restless. The bar's deep, droning music lingered, a thread pulling her back to that distant, familiar moment.
Sleep overtook her. But instead of her usual dreams, she found herself in the train carriage where Hongmei had first met Michael. Sunlight streamed through the window, the seat colors, the scent of the air, even the faint warmth of the wooden frames—everything felt real.
Hongmei sat at one end. Sabrina sensed herself there, but not as her past self—like a shadow, observing.
Across, the quiet man looked up. Sabrina's heart skipped a beat. Memory and reality overlapped. That encounter on the train felt not only past, but as if it truly happened across parallel timelines—she, Hongmei, and Michael each on different tracks, leaving overlapping echoes in the same moment.
She tried to reach out but touched nothing. The train rumbled; the wheel-on-track sound had a strange rhythm. Each jolt struck her chest lightly, a reminder: memory was not illusion, but a hidden path to reality.
Hongmei looked up and smiled, overlapping with the image of the strong Hongmei on the hospital bed. Sabrina almost heard her future words: "Lihua, don't worry. I'll get through this."
As the train entered a tunnel, light flickered. The distant Didgeridoo hum returned, blending with the bar's rhythm. Dream and reality intertwined, pulling her between timelines.
Suddenly, a hand brushed her. Sabrina opened her eyes—not on the train, but in her bedroom. William slept peacefully beside her.
She inhaled deeply, realizing that reality, dreams, the train, and parallel intersections were not accidental. Certain connections had long been buried in memory and time, waiting to be awakened.
She closed her eyes, turning to hold William's hand—an unspoken promise to the future: no matter how unpredictable life became, she would stay with her family, face life, and cherish those tender moments that transcended time.