Michael stepped out of the AXA office building. The winter air in New York was cold and dry. He paused at the entrance, loosened his scarf, then wrapped it back around his neck, taking a deep breath.
At this hour, Manhattan was already congested.
He didn't drive. Instead, he turned toward the subway entrance, heading for MSKCC. Hongmei's attending physician was waiting for him there.
He needed answers.
Did she have to be hospitalized again?
Were there any other treatment options?
Was there… still time?
⸻
He took the E train from the World Trade Center. While transferring to the 6 line at Lexington Ave/53rd Street, he missed his stop.
Only when the train pulled into the next station and the announcement echoed through the carriage did he suddenly come back to himself.
For a moment, he didn't even know what he had been thinking.
It had been happening more and more often.
Recently, Hongmei had begun experiencing intermittent seizures and vomiting. Her condition was deteriorating. Something inside him—some quiet force that had once held him together—felt as though it had been pulled away, leaving him dull, hollow, drifting.
They had been together for so many years.
The first time Hongmei had surgery, Clara was only one year old. Breast cancer.
Back then, he had nearly fallen apart.
But the surgery had been successful. The follow-up treatment went smoothly. Hongmei recovered well. She cut her hair short and would often smile, telling him, "This new look isn't bad either."
For a while, he had believed that fate had finally shown him a little kindness.
And now—
Glioma.
Discovered too late.
Hongmei had complained of persistent headaches before. He had assumed it was just stress from work. When she took Advil every day, he simply told her to cut back on work, to get more rest.
He hadn't thought further.
That delay, that failure to notice, had now turned into a constant weight of guilt.
He couldn't forgive himself.
Sometimes, when he looked up at the spires of a church, he would ask quietly: Why?
⸻
His parents had divorced when he was very young.
His father, British, had been a Royal Air Force pilot during World War II, shot down over Paris. His mother had been a wartime nurse. Their love had been intense, romantic—a story lit by fire and danger.
But in peacetime, they could not understand each other.
His mother was emotional, romantic. His father, silent 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.
Something inside him collapsed that day—forever.
⸻
After graduation, he joined AXA and stayed for over twenty years. Ten years ago, he was transferred to New York. Living apart from his first wife eventually led to divorce. Their son was raised by his ex-wife. They rarely saw each other. There was no real closeness.
Life felt like a painting, constantly being torn apart.
Until he met Hongmei.
Hongmei—and Clara—were the light that grew back into his life.
He had always believed they were the ones who pulled him out of the ruins.
And now—
Her illness made him feel as if he were once again standing at the edge of a cliff.
Last time, he could believe in recovery after surgery.
This time, he no longer dared to believe in miracles.
Clara was still young. She needed her mother.
And he was not ready to lose her.
⸻
The train sped through the tunnel. His pale reflection flickered in the window.
The future was a fog.
He didn't know how to face it.
⸻
The final design files were sent one after another. When the confirmation sound for the last submission appeared, Sabrina leaned back in her chair, her gaze lingering on the screen for a few seconds before her fingers slowly relaxed.
Her phone vibrated.
Frank.
Last week, he had created a group chat—people from that same flight, all experiencing persistent dreams, as if bound together by something unseen.
"Maybe we should talk."
"Maybe it's not a coincidence."
The discussions were more active than expected.
Some described the structure of cities in their dreams. Others spoke of a pressure in their chest upon waking. A few had begun recording time and details.
Frank suggested they meet in person when possible.
It felt as though something subtle was forming between reality and dreams.
He relayed something Daniel had said:
"I've been exercising more lately. The dreams have decreased noticeably."
Perhaps physical exhaustion could quiet the overactive mind.
In his message, he suggested she try long-distance running or yoga.
Sabrina didn't reply immediately.
But she suddenly realized—she hadn't woken up in the middle of the night in a long time.
⸻
After Jason left, Liam had taken over.
At first, things were uneven. But he quickly found his rhythm. Several major projects gradually came under his lead. Susan resisted at first—her tone sharp in meetings. Sabrina spoke to her privately once.
No emotion.
Just a redefinition of boundaries.
After that, Susan began to cooperate.
The team regained its flow.
Tasks were completed one by one.
Data archived. Designs finalized. Timelines stabilized.
And suddenly, Sabrina realized—
Everything seemed to be returning to its track.
⸻
When she left the office that evening, the sky had not yet darkened. The wind was light.
No shadows of dreams.
No invisible disturbances.
Just an ordinary day.
She hoped it would last.
⸻
Time passed quickly. Summer vacation was already ending. Tingting was about to start third grade. The little girl had grown noticeably taller.
After lunch, the whole family prepared to go out. First, to buy Tingting a new dress, then a pair of sneakers for Yangyang. After shopping, they planned to have dinner out.
Haitao had been busy since returning from his medical mission in Tibet. It was rare for the whole family to gather like this.
Yangyang insisted on going to Pizza Hut. Tingting and Lili agreed immediately. In the end, they went.
When the pizza arrived, the table was filled with noise and laughter. Haitao kept checking messages on his pager. Lihua asked if something urgent had come up.
"Nothing major," he said. "Just scheduling at the department."
⸻
On the way home, the children continued arguing.
Haitao seemed distracted while driving. He braked abruptly at several red lights.
Lihua sensed something was off.
A faint unease crept into her heart—as if something were about to happen.
⸻
Some time ago, when she went to the hospital to pick up asthma medication for Lili, she had stopped by Haitao's office.
She hadn't knocked.
Inside, she saw a young female doctor with her hand resting on Haitao's shoulder.
When the doctor noticed her, she quickly withdrew her hand. The moment felt awkward.
Later, Haitao explained that the woman was a colleague from the Tibet mission. They had supported each other closely during their time there.
"Don't overthink it," he said.
But the explanation only deepened her unease.
Still, she didn't ask further.
That was her nature.
Some things, she kept to herself.
⸻
Michael had just picked up documents from a client and was driving back to the office. Files were piled on the passenger seat. Just a few more blocks and he would arrive.
Then the radio cut in—
A plane had struck the World Trade Center.
He frowned. A flight accident? Navigation error? New York's skies were always busy. It sounded serious, but he didn't immediately assume the worst. He slowed the car slightly.
A few minutes later, the voice on the radio grew urgent—
Another plane had hit the second tower.
His hands froze on the steering wheel.
Two planes.
Two towers.
Within minutes.
This was no accident.
This was an attack.
⸻
Cars ahead began to stop. People stepped out, looking up toward the distance.
He pulled over and walked quickly toward the office building. A crowd had already gathered at the entrance. Alarms blared inside. Dust hung faintly in the air.
He called the office.
"Are you safe?"
The response came in fragments, filled with barely restrained panic.
Firefighters and police rushed into the building, ordering evacuation. Broken glass scattered across the floor. Michael moved with the crowd, retreating outside.
Traffic was frozen. People were panicked.
In the distance, the twin towers burned.
Thick smoke and massive clouds of dust swallowed the streets. Debris, shattered glass, fragments of buildings littered the ground. Emergency vehicles flooded the area.
The city descended into chaos.
⸻
Hundreds of miles away—
Maria was on vacation in Florida, accompanying relatives from the Philippines at Disney. She had planned to return to New York that day.
By evening, the airport was crowded, tense. All flights had been grounded by the FAA. Electronic boards flashed one word repeatedly:
CANCELLED.
Announcements echoed nonstop.
Security tightened. Movement was restricted.
Maria stood anxiously in a corner of the terminal and called Michael.
"All flights are grounded…"
Michael held the phone in silence for a few seconds.
The city was in chaos. At home, someone needed care. Work, family, responsibility—all pressing down at once.
"Don't worry," he said finally, steadying his voice.
⸻
Night fell.
The city remained shrouded in dust and smoke. Sirens echoed in waves.
Michael pushed open the door to his home.
The living room lights were on. The television played silent footage—burning towers.
Hongmei sat on the sofa, pale.
Clara curled beside her.
"Daddy," Clara said softly.
He knelt and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.
"When is Maria coming back?"
He paused. "Her flight was canceled. She's safe. She'll be back in a few days."
Hongmei looked up at him.
Not fear—
but a deep uncertainty.
⸻
He walked to the window and drew the curtain aside.
The sky was gray.
The city's outline blurred.
This familiar place suddenly felt unfamiliar.
Dinner was simple. No one truly ate.
Clara clung tightly to his hand, as if letting go might cause the world to collapse.
Late at night, she fell asleep in his arms.
He carried her gently to bed, covering her carefully.
The living room fell quiet.
Sirens rose and faded in the distance.
That night—
he barely slept.
During this period, Sabrina kept up her morning runs and attended hot yoga classes on weekends. Perhaps it truly helped. The recurring dreams that had once haunted her had not appeared for a long time.
Life became calm, steady.
Without the disturbance of dreams, she felt almost weightless, as if something heavy had quietly lifted. At times, she even wondered whether those repetitive dreams had simply been illusions—manifestations of accumulated stress.
She rarely spoke in Frank's group chat anymore, deliberately distancing herself from them. She didn't want to be drawn back into the dreams, didn't want to be trapped again by those blurred, entangled images.
Her current life felt pleasant—strangely, deeply relaxed.
⸻
That weekend, a friend of Clara's had just opened a new restaurant—a fusion of Chinese and Mexican cuisine. They were invited to a tasting, and Sabrina and Vivian planned to go on Saturday evening.
The restaurant had a modern design, with soft lighting. The air carried a blend of chili and Sichuan pepper—warm, layered, slightly intoxicating.
That night, Sabrina met Clara's boyfriend, Eric.
He was a gentle-looking young man of Chinese-Korean heritage. His Mandarin was fluent. His father was Chinese, his mother Korean, and he had spent part of his childhood in China. Now he worked at Oracle—a typical IT professional, reserved, soft-spoken.
Toward the end of dinner, Clara casually mentioned that she and Eric planned to walk the Camino de Santiago that summer.
Before she was born, her parents had already completed two sections: Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles to Zubiri, and then Zubiri to Pamplona to Puente la Reina. She still remembered walking part of it as a child—vineyards stretching endlessly, the sun intense, the wind carrying the scent of fruit.
"I want to finish the rest of the route," she said. "We've already picked a time."
She glanced at Eric. He smiled softly and nodded.
Sitting beside Sabrina, Clara naturally leaned closer as she spoke. Vivian teased them, laughing, "The two of you look like sisters—or maybe mother and daughter."
Even Eric chuckled. "That's exactly how it feels."
The closeness between them seemed effortless—like a soft, invisible thread gently binding them together.
Sabrina sat quietly, listening as they talked about the road to Santiago de Compostela. The restaurant buzzed with voices, glasses clinking lightly.
And yet, something stirred faintly inside her.
That road.
Summer.
Vineyards.
For reasons she couldn't explain, her chest tightened slightly.
The dreams had faded.
But something else… seemed to be drawing nearer.
⸻
Hongmei was hospitalized again.
Michael's life fell once more into a rigid cycle—AXA, MSKCC, home. Repeating every day, like a track with no exit.
After this round of treatment, all her hair had fallen out again. She looked noticeably weaker, with almost no appetite. Maria tried different dishes every day, hoping to coax her into eating more, but it made little difference.
Hongmei was no longer as cooperative as before.
It was as if she had already made a decision about the future.
That quiet withdrawal pulled Michael down with her. Yet each time he entered the hospital room, he forced himself to adjust—to stay steady, to offer encouragement, to tell her there was still hope.
But Hongmei no longer seemed to believe in the word recovery.
⸻
She began, slowly, to arrange things for after her passing.
Some of her treasured jewelry she set aside for Clara. Others she assigned to her mother and sister. One by one, she arranged everything with quiet clarity.
She did not hold much hope for this treatment.
She told Michael that if the day came when she was gone, she wished for half of her ashes to be sent back to China—to remain with her family.
Each time he heard this, Michael felt something inside him sink.
He refused to accept that this would become reality. In his mind, he still held onto a single image—Hongmei recovering, the three of them living an ordinary life.
But reason kept reminding him—
That might be nothing more than an impossible dream.
He had spoken with her doctor.
The chances of recovery were very small.
⸻
That night, Michael called Lihua.
He told her… Hongmei might not have much time left.
She should prepare herself.
On the other end, there was a long silence.
⸻
The night was deep.
The room so quiet it felt like even breathing could be heard.
In the middle of the night, Sabrina woke abruptly from sleep.
In her dream, Hongmei's pale, emaciated face kept appearing—her fragile body, over and over again. The repetition weighed heavily on her chest, accompanied by a dull headache.
She took an Advil and lay back down.
Half-awake, half-asleep, the dream returned once more.
⸻
The cold war between Lihua and Haitao had lasted for more than two months.
He had been coming home late every night. Whenever she called, his answer was always brief:
"There's still work at the hospital. Go ahead and eat. Don't wait for me."
Lihua had been in low spirits these days. Thinking back, the last time they had been intimate was nearly half a year ago. Since having children, physical closeness had gradually faded.
She hadn't dwelled on it too much.
She had assumed it was simply the reality of married life after children.
For years, she had trusted Haitao completely.
There had been no reason not to.
⸻
Haitao had studied as a graduate student at Capital Medical University. His internship was assigned to the department where Lihua's father worked at Tiantan Hospital.
Her father had admired his ability and held him in high regard.
They met when her father once brought Haitao home as a guest. Her parents had a good impression of him—he came from a small southern town, simple, steady, reliable.
Their relationship progressed naturally. Dating. Marriage. A life that seemed destined to be stable.
Later, Haitao officially joined Tiantan Hospital.
To Lihua, a man from a small town meant dependability. Their future, she believed, would be secure.
But reality was not always so.
⸻
Her mother had, on several occasions, heard rumors from her father's former colleagues—that Haitao had an ambiguous relationship with a young female doctor at the hospital.
Each time her mother visited, she would hint at it, gently reminding both of them to cherish their family—to remember how well-behaved and loving their three children were, and how much effort it took to maintain harmony.
⸻
Now, with Hongmei's condition worsening and her being hospitalized again, the emotional toll on Lihua was immense.
Her energy was split—between caring for the children and worrying about her sister.
The tension with Haitao could no longer be her priority.
She didn't have the strength to resolve it.
Haitao still came home late.
There was dissatisfaction in her heart—but even more than that, there was exhaustion.
A quiet helplessness.
So she endured it in silence.