Late at night, Sabrina woke once again from a dream.
Hongmei's frail figure, the cold hospital lights—these images intertwined, repeating over and over in her mind. Her head throbbed, splitting with pain, yet she couldn't pull her thoughts away. She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift, unable to resist the current.
Messages from Frank would occasionally remind her that these dreams were not isolated. Some people had begun documenting uncanny coincidences—scenes from their dreams aligning with real-world time, cities, even weather.
Sabrina began to realize that her calm, ordinary life might only be a surface illusion.
The dreams had never truly left.
⸻
Clara's plan to walk the Camino de Santiago slipped into Sabrina's thoughts like sunlight.
She found herself thinking—perhaps some journeys do not need to be taken in person to leave traces within us. Some connections, even when unspoken, can still become a quiet source of strength.
⸻
The streets of New York gradually fell silent.
Leaning by the window, Sabrina closed her eyes, sensing a strange interweaving—past and present, dream and reality.
Each person's life moved along its own line, slowly, steadily.
Sometimes those lines intersected.
Sometimes they ran parallel.
And sometimes, in the quiet of night, they flickered briefly with light.
⸻
After work, Sabrina arrived at the bar early.
Frank was still stuck in traffic. His message read: "Wait for me—don't rush."
The bar was dimly lit, the air tinged with alcohol. A low, melancholic song played through the speakers:
Years pass like seasons,
I'm just staying alive…
Your scent lingers like yesterday's rain…
I whisper your name…
Every candle I light…
burns weaker than before…
The melody was slow, heavy with sadness.
Sabrina's mind drifted back to the dream from the night before.
The dreams had returned—suddenly, violently—pushing her to the edge of collapse.
She ordered a whiskey, neat. The sharp burn slid down her throat.
She sent William a message: "I'll be home late tonight."
⸻
Frank walked in and sat across from her.
After a brief greeting, he asked, "Did you see the photos in the group?"
Sabrina had already left the group. She didn't want to be pulled back into it—the fragmented discussions, the endless speculation about dreams.
"I noticed something," Frank said, pulling out his phone.
The photos were boarding passes from that flight.
"All the people who later had recurring dreams—almost all of them had seat A. Window seats."
"A?" Sabrina murmured, puzzled. She always chose window seats when flying. Maybe she had been in seat A that day too.
"Almost all," Frank nodded. "Except Daniel. His boarding pass says seat C—but the last row was empty that day. After takeoff, he switched to an A seat. So in reality, he was sitting by the window too."
The music in the bar continued. Tiny droplets of condensation clung to the glass.
Was it coincidence?
What had really happened before that emergency landing?
⸻
Frank fell silent for a moment.
The music shifted, the rhythm growing deeper.
"Daniel sent me a voice message yesterday," he said.
"He's been having the same dream over and over."
Sabrina said nothing.
Frank continued:
"It's on the plane."
"Not crashing. Not landing."
"Just…"
He paused.
"He's looking out the window."
Sabrina frowned slightly.
Frank met her gaze.
"He said everything outside was very quiet."
"Unnaturally quiet."
⸻
Someone in the bar laughed. Glasses clinked.
But suddenly, the air around Sabrina felt heavier.
Frank handed her his phone.
"Listen."
The recording was only twenty seconds long.
Daniel's voice was low, distant, as if recalling something fragile:
"I'm sitting by the window… the plane feels like it's stopped."
"Outside—it's not clouds."
"It's… light."
"A vast field of light."
"Very bright, but not blinding."
"Like sunlight over the ocean at dusk."
"The whole sky… is golden."
⸻
The recording ended.
Sabrina remained silent for a few seconds.
Her fingers slowly tightened.
Frank noticed.
"What is it?"
She didn't answer.
In her mind, an image flashed—
The plane.
The cabin lights suddenly going out.
Outside the window—
A vast golden glow.
Like sunset spreading across the sky.
Her heartbeat quickened sharply.
She remembered.
She had seen it too.
She had just always believed—
It was only a dream.
⸻
Frank watched her face turn pale.
"Wait," he said suddenly.
"You saw it too?"
Sabrina didn't respond immediately.
The bar lights flickered faintly.
Then she spoke, her voice low:
"It wasn't a dream."
Frank froze.
She looked up at him.
Almost like speaking to herself:
"That day… on the plane…"
"I really saw it."
⸻
Frank continued talking about the group—people questioning seat numbers, recalling a brief blackout during the flight…
Sabrina stayed silent.
She had left the group.
But the dreams—
had never truly left her.
⸻
When Lihua received a call from Haitao's hospital leadership, her heart tightened slightly.
They wanted to understand a situation—from her.
It involved the young female doctor rumored to have had an affair with Haitao.
The doctor had suffered domestic violence at home, resulting in a miscarriage. Her husband, who had been undergoing treatment for male infertility, believed the child was not his. The argument had escalated into violence.
The doctor was now staying in staff housing.
The hospital had already spoken separately with Haitao and the doctor. Now, they wanted to hear from Lihua.
⸻
Standing in the director's office, Lihua steadied herself, took a breath, and said firmly:
"I am Haitao's wife. I know my husband. He would not have an affair. These are just rumors."
⸻
Afterward, the atmosphere at home softened.
The children's laughter returned, like sunlight falling across a winter windowsill.
Haitao began helping more in the kitchen—cutting vegetables, tidying up. His movements were clumsy, but sincere.
Lihua watched him, understanding that this was his way of trying—perhaps even a quiet form of repentance.
She sighed softly.
Let the past remain in the past.
Life, she knew, would always bring difficulties. Some things had to be let go.
She hoped the children would grow up slowly, surrounded by warmth and joy.
For her, this was the life she wanted—
simple, warm, whole.
⸻
Sabrina picked up her vibrating phone.
Clara's voice came through—tense, urgent.
Their weekend dinner plans had been canceled. Most restaurants in New York were closed. Some only offered takeout. Dining in had become impossible.
Just last month, Clara had mailed a box of masks to her family in Beijing. Now, masks in New York were nearly impossible to find. Supermarkets had run out of water, disinfectant, even toilet paper.
Worse—
her father had a persistent high fever.
Hospitals were overwhelmed. ICU beds were scarce. He had been transferred to a temporary field hospital in Central Park.
⸻
Listening to her, Sabrina felt a mix of emotions—heavy, tangled.
She and William had both started working from home the week before. Projects had stalled. No one knew when things would resume. The future felt uncertain.
Markets were closed. Schools shut down.
The Broadway shows she had been looking forward to were canceled.
Everything felt suspended.
⸻
The streets were empty.
Even during her morning runs, it felt like moving through an abandoned city.
Masks were mandatory outside. The doorman wore a constant expression of worry.
Everyone was living under the shadow of the pandemic.
⸻
Sabrina steadied her voice, trying to reassure Clara.
"Don't panic. Your father will get better."
On the other end, Clara nodded softly, taking a deep breath—as if trying to pull herself back from the edge of fear.
⸻
In a city paused in place,
everyone waited—
in anxiety, in uncertainty—
for the day life might begin again.
Though no one knew
how far away that day might be.
After the heating stopped, the temperature inside the apartment dropped sharply. Cold seeped through the walls, settling into every corner of the home.
The children wore down jackets and thermal underwear, hopping around from time to time to keep warm. Even so, the chill lingered, making their bodies shiver involuntarily.
Beijing had entered a semi-lockdown.
Schools were closed. Several local students in Lihua's class had moved back home, while those from other regions remained in dormitories under strict quarantine management.
The entire city felt as if someone had pressed pause.
⸻
At the same time, hospitals were overwhelmed.
Patient numbers surged. Anxiety spread. The streets fell eerily silent.
Tiantan Hospital had been designated a SARS treatment center, primarily admitting suspected and confirmed cases—especially those with mild to moderate symptoms.
Strict protective training was implemented for all medical staff. Departments were reorganized; ordinary wards were converted into isolation units. The risk of infection for healthcare workers was extremely high.
Staff working in direct contact with patients were rarely allowed to return home. Most of their time—work and rest alike—was confined within the hospital.
After their shifts, they could stay in hospital dormitories or designated rest areas. If they needed to return home, they had to undergo leadership approval, strict health screening, and full disinfection procedures before being permitted a brief visit.
⸻
Haitao had not been home for more than half a month.
He chose to remain at the hospital, afraid of bringing the virus back, afraid of putting his family at risk.
He had witnessed several critically ill patients die within a short time. The weight of it pressed heavily on him.
Each day meant over ten hours of intense work. Physical exhaustion he could endure—but the constant anxiety, the unrelenting tension, kept his nerves stretched thin.
He had no way of knowing how Lihua and the children were doing at home.
Every time he called, Lihua spoke in a calm, steady voice:
"Everything is fine at home. Don't worry. Just focus on protecting yourself at the hospital. Take care of yourself. You don't need to worry about us."
⸻
Their original plan—to travel south during the May holiday to visit Haitao's parents—was forced to be canceled.
People from Beijing were treated with suspicion.
Hotels refused them. Neighborhood committees conducted door-to-door checks.
⸻
During this time, Lihua had suggested that her mother move in with them.
But her mother, long accustomed to living alone, refused to change her habits.
So every few days, when Lihua went out to buy supplies, she would bring fresh vegetables and daily necessities to her mother.
⸻
Every outing required a mask.
Every return home required strict disinfection.
As the pillar of the family, Lihua could not afford to fall.
Every precaution she took was not only to protect her family—but also to allow Haitao, at the hospital, to work without worry.
⸻
Outside, the cold wind echoed the stillness of the city.
Between loved ones, quiet care and encouragement became their final line of defense in the midst of the epidemic.
⸻
That night, the dreams returned to Sabrina.
In them, Lihua stood in early spring Beijing, 2003, as SARS spread through the city.
Sabrina searched online for news from that time.
Scrolling numbers—case counts, death tolls—each one felt heavy, pressing against her chest like a weight.
The fear and anxiety Lihua had endured seemed to stretch forward like a ghost—reaching into the present, into the COVID-19 pandemic they were now living through in 2020.
⸻
Again and again, nature strikes humanity.
Each time, it feels like a warning:
Respect nature.
Otherwise, disaster will follow like a shadow.
Human arrogance—and human forgetfulness—may be the true roots behind these recurring catastrophes.
⸻
Dream and reality intertwined.
Past and present mirrored each other.
⸻
Sabrina sat by the window, staring at the stream of pandemic news on her phone.
Beijing in her dreams—the cold air, the empty streets, masked figures passing in haste.
Time seemed to repeat itself across different eras.
Humanity experienced the same fears again and again—yet seemed always to forget just as quickly.
Cities expanded. Forests disappeared. Rivers were polluted.
The weight carried by this planet grew heavier and heavier.
⸻
Sabrina closed her eyes gently.
She made a silent prayer.
That Lihua and her family in the dream would survive that epidemic safely.
That Clara's father, in the present, would slowly recover.
And that everyone around her would remain safe through this storm.
⸻
When Sabrina woke the next morning, her eyes were so swollen from allergies that she could barely open them. The world itself felt blurred.
The city was shut down.
Pharmacies were closed.
She had run out of medicine at home.
⸻
A quiet sense of being trapped spread through her.
It wasn't just physical discomfort—it was something deeper.
A loss of control.
⸻
In New York City, tension ran high.
Debates over the origin of the virus intensified.
Some people were judged—or even mistreated—for wearing masks.
⸻
During a video call the previous week, Vivian had complained:
When she wore a mask to the grocery store, people pointed at her, whispering.
She even heard someone say, "Chinese brought the virus."
The words were hurtful—infuriating, and deeply discouraging.
⸻
When anxiety spreads through society, fear often turns into blame.
Perhaps it comes from the fear of the unknown.
But the ones who bear the burden are those being targeted.
⸻
I hope this ends soon… and everything returns to normal, Sabrina thought quietly.
⸻
Every major upheaval in society creates the illusion that there is no end.
But time, inevitably, softens everything.
Cities will regain order.
Pharmacies will reopen.
People will walk the streets again.
⸻
"Back to normal" may not look exactly the same as before.
But life—
will always find its way back to balance.