The air in Hong Kong still carried the familiar dampness. The news of his grandfather's serious illness had brought Frank rushing from New York.
By day, he stayed at the hospital, and by night, he was haunted by the recurring dream—so vivid that the office layout, the corridor turns, the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, all felt less imagined than real.
Finally, he followed the memory of the dream to the building. The elevator rose slowly, floor numbers ticking past, his heartbeat climbing with each. When the doors opened, he felt he could almost foresee the glass door at the end of the corridor.
He walked down the corridor, both familiar and strange, stopping at the office door from his dream. Hesitating for a moment, the door suddenly opened from the inside, and a young man carrying a stack of files nearly collided with him.
"Sorry," the young man said politely, stepping aside.
Frank froze, then awkwardly asked, "Excuse me… is there—or was there ever—an accounting firm on this floor?"
The young man thought for a moment. "Most of this floor is lawyers. Our company is in law. An accounting firm? I haven't heard of one."
Silence settled in the corridor. Frank nodded, thanked him, but a hollow unease rose in his chest—had the sense of reality been nothing but a dream?
As Frank turned to leave, the young man added, "I can ask our longest-serving colleague. He's been here for many years…"
They exchanged contact information. Stepping out of the building, sunlight reflected off the glass facade.
A few days later, Frank received a message from the young man:
"I asked. The senior colleague said that before our law firm moved in, this office really was an accounting firm."
The light of the screen reflected in Frank's eyes.
It seemed the dream had left a subtle, tangible mark in reality.
In that moment, exhilaration mixed with a shiver ran through him—like an untraveled life whispering back across the cracks of time.
Back in New York, the shock of that Hong Kong office lingered in Frank's mind. Urgently, he arranged another meeting.
Frank spoke first, recounting Hong Kong, the high-rise from his dream, his heartbeat upon entering that office, and the confirmation that an accounting firm had truly existed there. His words came faster than usual, eyes still alight with lingering excitement.
"Maybe it's not a coincidence," he said. "Perhaps there's a connection between dreams and reality."
Some nodded; others expressed doubt. Discussion wavered between reason and unease.
Mary arrived, sitting by the window, hands clasped, quiet and still. At the last meeting, she had shared the story of her vanished pregnancy. Eyes lingered on her, as if expecting more.
Sabrina was also there. Her gaze drifted slowly between speakers, recording subtle shifts in tone. Lately, she had been reading Story of Your Life. The nonlinear perception of time in the aliens' language fascinated her. The heroine, Louise, even knowing future sorrow, still chose to experience life—something that resonated deeply with Sabrina.
She quietly thought: perhaps everyone's life is like that—inevitable losses mingled with gentle lights. Every choice is worth cherishing, even if the future cannot be altered.
In that moment, Sabrina felt a strange calm, as though an invisible thread connected dreams and reality, time and emotion.
When someone suggested the possibility of "parallel timelines," Frank glanced at her. Sabrina made no reply, only held his gaze for a moment—neither confirming nor denying, just a clear, measured scrutiny.
She understood: everyone sought meaning in the unknown, yet meaning itself is often humanity's shield against uncertainty.
The night fell over New York. The dream persisted.
⸻
In the evening, the office dimmed. Sabrina began gathering her things when her phone vibrated.
It was Frank.
She answered, hearing his tense, urgent voice: "Mary is dead."
A pause.
"Second suicide."
For over a year, Mary had been tormented by recurring dreams. She hadn't spoken at the last meeting. Later, she called Frank, saying she constantly glimpsed the future in dreams—she saw a child, the child living with its father. Clear, warm images—but she was never in them.
She hadn't appeared in the dream. That absence itself felt like a premonition.
Before boarding that flight, she had been pregnant. That life, unconfirmed, quietly disappeared. She began linking the child in her dream with that lost pregnancy.
In reality, Mary had been single since breaking up with her ex two years ago. Yet her dreams persistently showed her a "future that had happened"—a child and father, with her absent from their home.
These repeated images caused extreme anxiety. She questioned time, reality, and whether she had missed an irreversible path.
Frank's voice grew low: "She said it wasn't an ordinary dream. It was like… seeing something in advance."
Sabrina stood still, fingers tightening slightly.
Outside, darkness deepened.
The news hit like a stone, shattering their prior discussions of "dreams connecting to reality." No longer curiosity, no longer excitement—only an unavoidable heaviness.
Dreams were no longer just puzzles.
They had become a cost.
The call ended. The office was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioner.
Sabrina didn't leave immediately.
She realized some people try to give meaning to the unknown, while others are consumed by the meaning itself.
⸻
A few days later, Frank issued another meeting invitation.
Mary's passing had left a heavy weight in everyone's hearts. Conversation about dreams could no longer be light.
That evening, they gathered at the familiar bar. Lights were dim, the clinking of glasses soft behind the counter. Outside, New York City sank further into night.
The mood was different. Everyone spoke quietly.
Frank spoke last, more measured, weighing his words.
"I've been thinking," he said, "what Mary's dream actually meant."
No one responded immediately.
Some stared at their drinks, others leaned back silently.
"If the child she dreamed of… is a possible future, does it mean—some things have already happened, and we just haven't reached them yet?"
The air grew stiller.
A frown appeared: "But if it's the future, why isn't she in it?"
No one answered.
Sabrina sat by the window, silent. She recalled reading Story of Your Life. The heroine could see past and future yet still chose to live—not because the future could be changed, but because every present moment held meaning.
She suddenly realized: perhaps the question isn't whether dreams are real.
The real question is—
If someone glimpses the future, can they bear the weight of continuing to live?
⸻
A voice from across the table broke the silence.
"Maybe Mary just trusted the dream too much."
Rational, insistently calm.
"Dreams are the brain processing information. We encounter so many fragments each day. Dreams piece them together. Sometimes they match reality—it's just probability."
Frank said nothing. His gaze remained on the table.
After a while, he whispered, "But that Hong Kong office… that wasn't probability."
Silence fell again.
Outside, night deepened. Streetlights flickered on, reflecting against the windows.
Sabrina felt an odd sensation.
They stood at an invisible crossroads.
Some trusted reason.
Some trusted fate.
And some—had begun to fear the dream itself.
She looked at Frank.
A thought struck her:
If dreams truly came from a time yet to arrive—
Perhaps all of them were only walking toward that answer.
And that answer might not be gentle.
Soft music drifted through the bar.
No one spoke.
But in each heart, a fissure had formed.
The dream remained.
And reality seemed to edge closer to it.
If dreams come from the future, could it be—that what we dream of has already happened in another timeline?
After returning from Spain, Eric moved into an apartment closer to his office.
Lately, an invisible tension had settled over Oracle. Rumors of layoffs circulated constantly, especially in cloud computing and technical departments. Almost every week, someone would be called in for a meeting, only to leave with a cardboard box. Conversations in the hallways grew quieter; elevator rides were filled with silence rather than small talk. The air seemed heavy with unspoken pressure.
Eric's work suddenly became more demanding. Projects were reshuffled, goals reset, one meeting after another. He started staying late, sometimes until the early hours of the morning.
His time with Clara grew scarce. On the phone, his voice remained gentle, but exhaustion was unmistakable.
The days they had walked side by side along the Camino felt not long past, yet reality had accelerated along another timeline, pushing them each toward a different rhythm.
As New Year's approached, Eric's parents invited Clara to their home.
That evening, Clara stepped into Eric's apartment for the first time. The warm aroma of cooking filled the air, soft light glowing from the kitchen.
Eric's mother greeted her warmly, smiling as she invited her to sit. On the table were freshly made dumplings—sauerkraut filling—and a steaming pot of soybean paste soup, white vapor curling gently under the lights.
She kept offering Clara food, her voice gentle, attentive. When she learned Clara suffered from eczema, she immediately went to the cabinet and pulled out a jar of her homemade ointment. "I studied Chinese medicine when I was younger," she said, "I know a bit about herbs. Take this home and try it."
The genuine care caught Clara by surprise, and she felt touched.
Eric's father, meanwhile, remained politely distant. His words were few, his demeanor calm and restrained.
He had always held a subtle bias against artists, and Clara being slightly older than Eric only added to his doubts. In his view, this relationship did not align with his expectations for the future.
As Clara left that night, the streets quiet, she glanced back at the lighted apartment. The warmth inside was real. Eric's mother's concern was sincere. And his father's silence—equally real.
Reality seemed like a slowly unfolding curtain—not just workplace pressures, but family expectations, generational perspectives, and different understandings of the future.
⸻
Earlier, during dinner, William had shared a story with Sabrina: a friend had driven to visit family over the weekend. On the way back, on a winding mountain road, the car had nearly crashed.
At a hairpin turn, the electric car suddenly failed to slow properly. Only after veering into a wide clearing could it finally turn and stop. The friend was drenched in cold sweat.
It turned out a camera in the rearview mirror had malfunctioned, and after being sent to the dealer for repair, the car's software had been updated. That update made sharp turns on mountain roads dangerously unpredictable—the brakes failed to perform as expected. The close call shook William, and any plans to switch to electric cars were immediately shelved.
⸻
On New Year's Eve, everyone gathered in William and Sabrina's living room. Champagne, desserts, and freshly baked snacks were spread across the table. Soft music played, and the atmosphere carried a rare sense of ease, as if the tumult of the past year had been paused for one night.
William was busy in the kitchen; the scent of roasting lamb, rich with fat and rosemary, slowly filled the room.
Clara smiled, recounting their Camino journey—the long walks, the scenery along the way, the weight of the backpacks, the indescribable thrill upon seeing the cathedral at the end. Eric occasionally chimed in, voice calm, carrying the quiet understanding only they shared.
Sabrina and Vivian listened quietly, leaning against the sofas.
After dinner, glasses of champagne in hand, conversation continued. As midnight approached, Clara suddenly raised her voice, laughing as she began the countdown.
"Ten, nine, eight…"
Everyone joined in, smiling.
At "two," Eric stood up.
At first, it seemed he was merely raising a glass. But he took a deep breath, and for a moment, the air seemed to slow.
"Clara."
He knelt on one knee. His voice was soft but clear.
Vivian instinctively paused mid-laugh. Sabrina gently set her glass down.
Eric pulled a small box from his pocket, a little awkwardly. "This past year, we've traveled a long way together," he said. "There was the sun in Spain, many quiet nights, and some difficult moments."
His voice wavered slightly.
"I don't know what the future holds. But I do know this—I want to be with you, no matter what."
The box opened, and the ring caught the light.
"Clara, will you marry me?"
Silence fell.
Clara froze.
Surprise flickered across her eyes, followed by a brief hesitation.
Sabrina watched quietly. She did not applaud, nor speak. She knew a proposal was never just a romantic scene—it was a promise for the future, courage to say "I will" in the face of uncertainty.
William whispered first: "Say yes."
All eyes turned to Clara.
Time seemed to pause, waiting for her response.
Clara's fingers tightened slightly.
She looked at Eric, kneeling before her, light falling on his face, carrying a quiet, earnest bravery.
Memories flashed through her mind.
The Spanish sun.
The long stone paths.
The cool morning air at the start of each day.
The long Camino—she and Eric, backpacks on their shoulders, step by step toward the horizon.
That pilgrimage had made her feel life was beginning anew.
But another memory sometimes surfaced quietly.
Her father lying in a hospital bed.
Empty corridors.
The heavy breaths at night that pressed against her chest.
She had once thought she had fully emerged from that darkness.
Some wounds never truly disappear—they simply sink slowly into the depths of life.
Eric stayed kneeling, patient, without urging.
His gaze was gentle, steady.
Clara suddenly realized—
Life does not advance in certainty; it continues through uncertainty.
She inhaled softly.
Then she reached out her hand.
"Yes."
Her voice was soft but clear.
The room seemed to light up.
Vivian laughed first, William raised his glass, Sabrina applauded gently. Eric exhaled with relief, as though completing a long journey. He stood and carefully slid the ring onto Clara's finger.
At that moment, New Year's countdowns rang out across the city.
"Happy New Year!"
Everyone laughed, raising glasses.
Bubbles rose slowly in their champagne.
Clara looked down at the ring, the light catching its small circle of gold—a quiet imprint of time.
Sabrina stood to the side, tears glinting in her eyes.
She thought of the book she had recently read—
If time isn't a single line, but a structure already fully formed,
Then perhaps this moment had already been written in some future.
A new year had begun.