Michael stepped out of the AXA office building, the winter air of New York biting and dry. He paused at the entrance, loosened his scarf, then retied it, taking a long, deep breath.
Manhattan was already starting to choke with traffic at this hour. He didn't drive. Instead, he turned toward the subway entrance, heading for MSKCC, where Hongmei's attending physician was waiting.
He needed answers.
Did Hongmei have to be hospitalized again?
Were there any alternative treatments?
And—was there still time?
He took the E train from the World Trade Center and transferred to the 6 line at Lexington Av/53 St—but somehow missed his stop.
When the train pulled into the next station and the announcement came over the speakers, he snapped back to reality. In that instant, he didn't even know what he had been thinking.
Lately, moments like this had become all too common.
Hongmei's intermittent seizures, her bouts of vomiting—her condition was worsening. The inner strength he relied on seemed to have been drained from him, leaving him dull, hollow, and distracted.
He had been with Hongmei for so many years.
Her first surgery was when Clara was just one year old—a breast cancer operation. He had nearly collapsed, but it succeeded, and the follow-up treatments went smoothly. Hongmei recovered well. She had cut her hair short and would smile at him, saying, "New look, not bad."
That was the first time he felt that fate had been gentle to him.
But now—
Glioblastoma.
Detected too late. He had dismissed her persistent headaches as work-related stress, advising her to rest more and take fewer responsibilities, while she relied on Advil. That inattentiveness had turned into relentless self-blame.
He couldn't forgive himself.
Sometimes, he looked up at church spires and silently asked: why?
His parents divorced early. His father was British, a Royal Air Force pilot shot down over Paris during World War II. His mother was a wartime nurse. Their wartime love had been intense and romantic, like a fairy tale lit by gunfire.
But in peacetime, they could not understand or accept each other.
His mother was emotional and romantic; his father, reserved and conservative.
When his younger brother was four, they separated. He and his brother stayed in France with their mother.
At eighteen, his brother died in a highway accident.
Since then, a part of him had collapsed forever.
After graduation, he joined AXA and stayed for more than twenty years, assigned to New York ten years ago. His marriage ended in divorce after a long-distance separation. His son went to live with his ex-wife, leaving him with little contact.
Life had become a painting continuously torn apart.
Until he met Hongmei.
Hongmei and Clara—they were the light growing back into his life.
He always felt that they had pulled him from the ruins.
And now—
Hongmei's illness made him feel as though he were standing at the edge of fate's cliff once more.
Last time, he could still believe that surgery would lead to recovery.
This time, he dared not trust in miracles.
Clara was still so young; she needed her mother. And he was not ready to lose her.
The train raced through the tunnel, the window reflecting his pale face. The future felt like a fog. He didn't know how to face it.
Meanwhile, Sabrina had been wrapping up several design projects. As the last proposal was successfully sent, she leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen for a few seconds before slowly releasing her fingers.
Her phone vibrated.
It was Frank.
Last week, he had created a group chat—people on the same flight who had been experiencing persistent dreams, seemingly drawn together by an unseen force.
"Maybe we can talk."
"Maybe it's not a coincidence."
The discussion in the group was livelier than expected. Someone described the structure of cities in their dreams, others spoke of the pressure on their chests upon waking, and some began recording the times and details.
Frank suggested they meet in person when everyone was available.
A subtle connection seemed to be forming between dreams and reality.
Frank relayed Daniel's observation:
"After increasing physical activity, the frequency of dreams has noticeably decreased."
He suggested that bodily fatigue might dampen the brain's overactivity.
Sabrina didn't reply immediately. But she realized she hadn't woken in the middle of the night for a long time.
Since Jason had left, Liam had taken over the work. Initially, there were some hiccups, but he quickly found his rhythm. Several major projects gradually moved forward under his leadership. Susan had resisted at first, speaking sharply in meetings, until Sabrina spoke to her privately—calmly, setting new boundaries.
Afterward, Susan began cooperating.
The team's pace smoothed out.
Tasks were completed. Data archived, designs finalized, timelines stabilized.
Sabrina suddenly realized—everything seemed to be back on track.
By the time she left the office in the evening, the sky had not yet fully darkened. A light breeze blew.
No dreams. No invisible burdens.
Just an ordinary, normal day.
She hoped such ordinary days could last a little longer.
Summer vacation had flown by. Tingting was about to start third grade. The little girl had grown fast. After lunch, the whole family went out together—first to buy Tingting a new dress and Yangyang a new pair of sneakers. After the afternoon shopping, they planned to have dinner out.
Haitao had been busy since returning from Tibet. The rare weekend together was a chance for the family to reunite. Yangyang wanted Pizza Hut, and Tingting and Lili eagerly agreed. At the restaurant, the children were loud and playful. Haitao kept checking his pager. Lihua asked if there was an urgent matter. He said it was nothing serious, just the department schedule.
On the way home, the children continued their noisy chatter. Haitao drove distractedly, braking abruptly at several red lights. Lihua sensed something was off about him recently, a vague unease forming in her heart, as though something was about to happen.
Recently, Lihua had gone to the hospital to pick up Lili's asthma medication and had stopped by Haitao's office. She hadn't knocked and walked in, only to see a young female doctor resting her hand on Haitao's shoulder. When she noticed Lihua, the doctor quickly withdrew her hand, the scene awkward.
Haitao later explained that the doctor was a colleague from the Tibet mission, where they had to rely on each other. Nothing more. He asked Lihua not to overthink it. But the explanation left a lingering unease she could not shake. Lihua had always been someone who held feelings inside, rarely speaking them aloud.
Michael, having collected materials from a client, drove back to his office. The passenger seat was piled with files. Just a few more blocks to go.
Then a broadcast interrupted—an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Center.
He frowned. A flight accident? Navigation error? New York's skies were always busy. It sounded serious, but he instinctively slowed down, not imagining the worst.
The car moved forward.
Minutes later, the broadcast became urgent—another plane had struck the second tower.
Michael's hands froze on the steering wheel.
Two planes. Two towers. Within mere minutes.
This was no accident.
Cars stopped ahead; people got out, craning their necks toward the distance.
He parked at the curb and hurried toward his office building. The entrance was crowded. Inside, alarms blared. Dust drifted from afar, scratching at his throat.
He dialed the office: "Is everyone safe?"
The voice on the other end was broken, trembling with panic.
Firefighters and police surged into the building, ordering evacuation. Glass shards littered the lobby floor as Michael followed the crowd outside. Streets were blocked, pedestrians panicked. In the distance, both towers spewed black smoke. Massive clouds of dust and debris filled the streets, emergency vehicles surged. The city was chaos.
Hundreds of miles away, Maria, on vacation, was with relatives from the Philippines at Disney World in Florida. She had planned to return to New York today.
The airport was packed, tense. All flights were grounded by FAA order. Screens flashed "CANCELLED" repeatedly. Announcements echoed continuously. Security was tight; non-essential personnel were restricted.
Maria anxiously called Michael from a corner of the terminal.
"All flights are canceled…"
Michael held his phone in silence for several seconds. The city was in turmoil. Family responsibilities weighed heavily alongside work.
"Don't worry," he said, calming himself, reassuring Maria.
Night fell; the city remained shrouded in dust and smoke, punctuated by sirens.
Michael opened the door to his apartment.
The living room light was on. The TV played muted news, showing the burning towers. Hongmei sat on the sofa, pale. Clara curled up beside her.
"Daddy," Clara whispered.
He crouched, holding her tightly.
"When will Maria be back?"
He paused. "The flights are canceled. She's safe. She'll be back in a few days."
Hongmei looked up at him—not with panic, but with deep concern for the unknown.
He went to the window, drawing back the curtains. The sky was gray; the city skyline blurred. This familiar place suddenly felt alien.
Dinner was simple; barely anyone ate. Clara clung to his hand, as if letting go would make the world collapse.
Late at night, his daughter slept in his arms. He carried her to her room, tucked her in.
The living room grew quiet.
Sirens continued intermittently.
That night, he barely slept.