When spring had just begun, Li Ming contracted COVID-19.
At first, it was only a mild discomfort. Her throat was dry and sore, her body slightly heavy. She assumed it was just the fatigue from several weeks of pushing through projects, working late nights under the office lights. It wasn't until her temperature gradually rose that she realized something was wrong.
Washington's streets suddenly seemed empty. Traffic stalled, office buildings went dark floor by floor, and the wind rustled through the trees. Li Ming looked out the window as sunlight dappled the pavement, stretching time itself.
In her bedroom, medicine bottles were neatly arranged on a wooden tray, the spoon beside the water glass tilted slightly, and the water in the vase rippled gently, reflecting the shadows of the white wall. Time moved slowly; the boundary between day and night blurred. Messages kept popping up—client inquiries, team discussions, project revisions—but she had no energy to handle them. She simply left her phone by the bed, scrolling through it lightly.
The next day, Dawei arrived. He said little, simply organizing the files on her desk and taking over the ongoing office projects. Client communications, plan developments, team assignments—every detail was arranged. He also handled the small daily tasks—placing medicines and food at the door. Li Ming lay in bed, watching him move around the apartment, her fingers unconsciously brushing the edge of the bedsheet, feeling a faint sense of comfort.
One afternoon, her phone rang. The screen displayed her older brother's number.
When she answered, his voice was heavy. "Dad… he… contracted COVID."
The words were like cold water poured into her chest, freezing her in place. Mid-sentence, his voice choked: "…he's gone."
She gripped the phone, her fingertips cold, her ears ringing with emptiness. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting dappled patterns on the floor; the wind moved the curtains. The world around her continued as before—the streets remained quiet—but the weight in her heart could not be lifted.
She tried contacting airlines, desperate to fly back to Harbin as quickly as possible. But flights were widely canceled, responses to emails and calls came slowly and indifferently. Every time she refreshed the information, it felt like a knife slicing gently at her chest—she couldn't return, couldn't handle her father's affairs with her own hands.
For days, she lay in bed, her attention drifting between memories and reality. She remembered winters in Harbin, her father draping a heavy coat over her shoulders, his quiet reminders. Every familiar detail felt magnified, warm yet distant, offering slight comfort yet steeped in unattainable longing.
Office projects were forced to pause, construction halted. Emails and video meetings replaced in-person discussions, but many details couldn't move forward. For the first time, Li Ming realized that even the firm she had built with her own hands was vulnerable.
Even after her fever subsided, her body remained heavy. During video calls with Dawei, her focus frequently faltered, her speech stopping mid-sentence. His voice remained calm: "I'll take care of this part. You rest first." She suddenly realized that some things no longer required her personal involvement to continue running smoothly.
She began to learn how to slow down. Mornings, she would make a cup of coffee and sit by the window, sunlight slanting through the glass and falling across the floor, stretching gray shadows. Occasionally she would hear the distant sound of construction or the rustling of leaves in the wind, and she felt a long-lost sense of peace.
Time passed slowly, and she gradually recovered. When she returned to the firm, the city and the office were slowly coming back to life. People rode bikes on the streets, pushed strollers, and construction machines resumed. In the conference room, she and Dawei stood over the plans, discussing adjustments. Papers were neatly arranged on the table, and notebook markings were clear.
Outside, cherry blossoms swayed gently in the sunlight, petals drifting on the water, scattering softly in the breeze. The pandemic had ended. The rhythm of life moved more slowly than she had ever accustomed herself to. Her father's passing weighed heavily on her heart; she could not say goodbye in person, yet she learned to let life continue. Each breath, each ray of light, carried traces of loss and the gentle strength to move forward—she slowly accepted life as it was.