The dream returned.
Chen Wei stood in the infinite gray hallway. The mop was in his hands. The floor stretched endlessly in every direction. But this time, his daughter wasn't ahead of him.
She was right behind him.
Dad.
He turned. She was there. Eighteen years old. The face from the photograph. But her eyes were wrong—frightened, desperate, lost.
Dad, I can't find you.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here."
I've been looking for so long. Why won't you let me find you?
He reached for her. His hand passed through her like smoke.
Dad—
The floor cracked beneath him. Red light poured through the fissures. The mop in his hands turned black, dead, useless. He fell—
And woke up gasping.
---
The ceiling was the same. The water stain in the corner was the same. The silence was the same.
But his hand was reaching for nothing. And his phone was in his other hand.
He didn't remember picking it up.
The screen glowed. Xiaolian's name. His thumb hovering over the call button.
3:17 AM.
He stared at the screen for a long time. His heart pounded. His breath came in short gasps.
He thought about her voice in the dream. Why won't you let me find you?
He thought about the voicemail he'd left. I'll answer. I promise.
He thought about her text. I'm glad you're thinking about me.
His thumb moved away from the call button.
He couldn't call her at 3:17 AM. Couldn't wake her up. Couldn't explain that he'd had a nightmare, that he needed to hear her voice, that he was terrified she would stop looking.
He put the phone down. Lay back. Stared at the ceiling.
The dream played on repeat behind his eyes.
---
At 8 PM, Chen Wei walked into the breakroom on Floor 47.
He must have looked terrible, because even Shi Zong stopped patting his pockets to stare.
Lao Xu looked up. "Xiao Chen. Sit."
Chen Wei sat. Miao Miao appeared beside him, placed tea in front of him, disappeared. The cup was perfect temperature. He didn't touch it.
Lao Xu waited.
After a long moment, Chen Wei said: "The dream came back."
"Tell me."
He told him. The infinite hallway. His daughter behind him. Reaching for her. Passing through. The floor cracking. The fall.
Lao Xu nodded slowly. "That's the cost."
"What cost?"
"Level 2. Junior Technician. You paid it once. You'll pay it again. And again. The dreams don't stop. They just... change."
Chen Wei looked at his tea. Still warm. Still untouched.
"How do you make them stop?"
"You don't. You learn to wake up." Lao Xu leaned back. "The dreams are your mind processing what you can't process while awake. The grief. The fear. The not-knowing. They'll keep coming until you don't need them anymore."
"And when will that be?"
Lao Xu smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. "When you answer the phone. When you see her face. When you know, really know, that she's still there."
Chen Wei thought about the dream. About reaching for her. About his hand passing through.
"What if I never—" He stopped.
Lao Xu waited.
"What if I never get there? What if I'm stuck here forever? In this hallway. Reaching for her. Never touching."
Lao Xu was quiet for a long moment. Then: "That's the fear. The real one. Not that she won't forgive you. Not that she won't call back. But that you'll never be able to reach her. That the distance is permanent."
Chen Wei nodded. That was exactly it.
"Here's what I know," Lao Xu said. "After thousands of years. After watching countless people lose countless things. The ones who make it—the ones who actually reach the people they're reaching for—they're not the ones who stop being afraid. They're the ones who keep reaching anyway."
He stood. Walked to the door. Paused.
"There's a cleanup tonight. Level 3. Minor deity, grief manifestation. She's waiting." He didn't turn around. "Go. Reach for her. Even if you can't touch. Keep reaching."
He left.
Chen Wei sat alone with his tea. After a long time, he drank it. It was still warm. It was always still warm.
He picked up his mop and went to work.
---
The address was a house in the suburbs. Ordinary. Two stories, a lawn, a driveway with a minivan. The kind of house where families lived and children grew up and life happened.
Inside, the lights were on. The door was open.
Chen Wei walked in.
The living room was full of photographs. Wedding pictures. Baby pictures. School pictures. A lifetime of moments, arranged on shelves and tables and walls.
In the center of it all, a woman sat on the floor.
She was young—maybe thirty—but her eyes were ancient. Grief had aged her past counting. Around her, the air shimmered. Memories flickered—a man's laugh, a child's first steps, a hand held in a hospital room.
She looked up as Chen Wei entered.
"Are you here to take them?"
"Take what?"
"The memories. The pain. All of it." Her voice was flat. Exhausted. "Everyone says I need to let go. Move on. Stop holding on." She gestured at the shimmering air. "But if I let go, they're really gone. He's really gone. And I can't—" Her voice broke. "I can't do that."
Chen Wei sat down on the floor across from her. Mop across his knees.
"I'm not here to take anything."
"Then why are you here?"
"To sit."
She stared at him. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"I don't understand."
"I know." He paused. "My daughter calls me. She's been calling for eight years. I never answered. Until recently."
The woman blinked. "Why not?"
"Because answering meant admitting I was here. And I wasn't sure I wanted to be here."
She looked at him for a long time. Then, quietly: "I know that feeling."
They sat in silence. The memories flickered around them. A wedding kiss. A baby's first cry. A last breath.
After a long time, she spoke again.
"His name was Wei. Like you. Different character." She almost smiled. "He used to say we were meant to be together because our names matched. Wei and Wei. It was stupid. I loved it."
Chen Wei nodded.
"He got sick two years ago. Cancer. Fast. We thought we had more time. We always think we have more time." Her voice cracked. "He held my hand at the end. Said he'd wait for me. Wherever he was going. He'd wait."
Chen Wei thought about his dream. About reaching for his daughter. About his hand passing through.
"He's waiting," Chen Wei said. "That's what they do. The ones who love us. They wait."
The woman looked at him. Tears streaming down her face.
"How do you know?"
"Because my daughter is waiting. Eight years. She's still waiting." He paused. "I don't know if I deserve it. I don't know if I'll ever make it right. But she's still there. Still waiting. That's all I have."
The woman was quiet for a long time. The memories slowed. The shimmering faded to a soft glow.
Then she reached out and took his hand.
It was warm. Solid. Real.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For sitting."
Chen Wei squeezed her hand. Just once. Then let go.
They sat until dawn.
---
When Chen Wei left, the house was quiet. The photographs were still there. The memories were still there. But the air was clear. Still. Peaceful.
He walked back to the building through morning light. The mop leaned against his shoulder. His phone was in his pocket.
He thought about the woman. About her husband. About waiting.
He thought about his daughter. About eight years. About the dream.
He pulled out his phone.
No new messages. Just her name in his call log. Just the voicemail he'd left. Just the texts they'd exchanged.
He typed:
Chen Wei: I dreamed about you again. You were behind me. I couldn't reach you. I woke up reaching for my phone.
He stared at it for a long time. Then pressed send.
He didn't expect a reply. Not at 6 AM. Not after a night like this.
But when he reached his apartment, his phone buzzed.
Xiaolian: I dreamed about you too. You were falling. I tried to catch you. I couldn't reach.
He read it three times.
Then he sat on his mattress, phone in hand, and cried.
Not sad tears. Not happy tears. Just... tears. The kind that come when something tight finally loosens.
The mop leaned against the wall. It glowed gold.
He didn't notice.
But he felt it.
---
End of Chapter 12