On New Year's Eve, Frank and his girlfriend met with William and Sabrina for dinner at a newly opened Mexican restaurant downtown.
Inside, the lighting was warm. Outside, the streets were alive with holiday energy. The restaurant buzzed with voices and laughter.
For most of the meal, Frank and Sabrina talked about the dreams.
William sat to the side, occasionally exchanging a few words with Frank's girlfriend.
Frank lowered his voice.
"I saw a post on Facebook," he said. "Someone from that flight—talking about the emergency landing."
Sabrina looked up.
"There were comments, too," he continued. "Several people said they were on the same flight."
There was a flicker of excitement in his eyes.
"Once I finish the exhibition I'm working on, I'm going to reach out to them."
The excitement spread across the table almost instantly.
The new year was approaching.
They raised their glasses.
"Happy New Year."
Sabrina smiled and joined them.
But beneath the smile, something else stirred.
A quiet, unfamiliar anticipation.
She found herself hoping—
That there were others.
Others who dreamed the same way.
—
Back home, she removed her makeup, washed up.
The apartment grew quiet.
She lay down and drifted into sleep almost immediately.
The dream began naturally.
In the kitchen—
The twins were fighting over a few pieces of biscuits.
"They're mine!"
"You already had one!"
Their older sister snapped at them, her voice sharp, edged with fatigue.
Suddenly, the boy pushed her.
A cry broke out.
"You didn't divide them fairly!" he protested.
"I want a drink!" the girl shouted.
"Give it back! Spit it out!"
The scene was ordinary.
Noisy. Chaotic. Real.
Lihua stood there, shaking her head lightly.
She took more biscuits from the cabinet, poured drinks.
Then turned and walked back to the study.
The computer screen glowed.
She was reviewing her students' assignments.
Life continued.
Then—
A sudden, sharp noise from the kitchen.
Water had boiled dry.
Eggshells cracked in the heat.
Lihua rushed in.
Steam cleared, leaving a mess behind.
Another round of cleaning.
Wiping.
Preparing lunch.
Everything—small, trivial, ordinary.
Until—
The phone in the living room began to ring.
Sharp.
Persistent.
—
Sabrina woke abruptly.
Sunday morning.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains.
The children's voices still echoed in her ears—laughing, crying, arguing.
The sense of reality lingered.
She closed her eyes, replaying it—
The biscuits.
The eggs.
Her phone vibrated.
Frank.
A message.
Just one line:
"I've found something new…"
—
Monday.
Sabrina walked into the office, turned on her computer. Susan had already sent over the revised proposal.
She skimmed it. The changes were minimal.
Before she could say anything, the client arrived.
In the meeting room, she gestured for Susan to lead.
She hadn't slept well over the weekend. Her mind felt dull, unfocused.
The client was from Hong Kong. They had purchased a second-hand home and wanted a full redesign—front and back yard, interior updates, especially the kitchen and bathrooms. More modern. Brighter. More open.
Susan finished presenting.
Silence followed.
The client shook his head slightly.
"This revision doesn't meet our expectations," he said politely. "The master bathroom still feels too dark. The material choices lack originality."
Clear. Measured.
But final.
The proposal was rejected.
After the client left, Susan followed Sabrina into her office.
She was visibly dissatisfied.
"I think this version is much better than the last one."
"Maybe they just don't know what they want."
Sabrina didn't respond immediately.
Susan was older. Educated at a well-known design school. Strong technical foundation. Strong sense of self.
Years ago, she had emigrated to Australia with her husband. Later, work had brought them to the United States—separately.
The marriage ended.
She raised her daughter alone.
The girl was exceptional—top grades, awards in swimming and ballroom dance, later accepted into a prestigious university.
Sabrina had met her a few times.
She had almost never seen her smile.
Only once—
Before a holiday.
A client had given Sabrina a box of cosmetics. She passed it along to Emily, who had been waiting for her mother after work.
That day, the girl's lips lifted—just slightly.
Just once.
Later, Sabrina heard fragments.
Pressure at school.
Emotional instability.
Recurring depression.
Self-harm.
When she saw her again, the girl often wore sports wristbands.
Sabrina had never asked.
Some things were not hers to ask.
—
Susan, despite being the most senior in the team, had the lowest approval rate.
Her fundamentals were solid.
But her sensitivity to trends, to evolving aesthetics—was limited.
If Sabrina were honest, she wasn't satisfied with her.
But every time she thought about Susan's situation, she hesitated.
And Susan seemed to know it.
Whenever Sabrina pointed out issues, Susan would say:
"I've done my best."
The tone—defensive, preemptive.
Ending the conversation.
Today was no different.
She didn't understand the client's dissatisfaction.
She thought the client was being unreasonable.
Communication stalled.
—
By the time Sabrina left the office, night had already fallen.
Susan stayed behind, still working.
Sabrina said nothing more.
Outside, the air was cool.
A restlessness settled in her chest.
Not just frustration with Susan.
Something else.
A quiet exhaustion—
From her own hesitation.
From blurred boundaries.
And then, a realization—
Compassion is not the same as fairness.
And she had been paying the cost of that confusion.
—
Her phone lit up.
A message from the client:
"Looking forward to the next revision."
Polite.
Even considerate.
They weren't being difficult.
They knew what they wanted.
She didn't.
She had been making excuses for Susan—
Age.
Immigration.
Single motherhood.
A difficult life.
But none of that was the team's responsibility.
Management wasn't charity.
And then—
Another uncomfortable truth:
Her "understanding" of Susan
Was, in part, avoidance.
Avoiding conflict.
Avoiding clarity.
"I've done my best."
The phrase echoed.
Best—
To what extent?
Her limit?
Or just enough?
Sabrina realized—
She had never truly asked.
She was afraid of hurting her.
Afraid of damaging what little pride remained.
But if standards were lowered for one person—
Was that fair to the rest?
To the client?
Even to Susan?
Another realization, colder this time—
Long-term tolerance doesn't protect a person.
It keeps them where they are.
She had always thought firmness was a form of coldness.
But now she saw—
Clarity is respect.
Vagueness is erosion.
—
That night, William was working late.
Sabrina had no appetite.
She poured herself a small glass of whiskey.
Lay in bed, restless.
Tomorrow, she would speak to Susan.
Calmly. Clearly.
Only about standards.
—
In her dream—
Her mother appeared.
Carrying fresh fennel and ground pork.
"We'll make dumplings," she said.
"Make more," she added casually. "Haitao will be leaving next month with the medical team. Better to freeze some in advance."
The kitchen filled with the faint scent of fennel.
Lihua chopped meat.
The knife struck the cutting board in steady rhythm.
Then her mother said, almost lightly—
"Tiantian is getting older… maybe it's time to send her away."
The knife stopped.
—
Years ago, it had been her mother's idea.
She and Haitao had tried for years without success. Remedies, hospitals—nothing worked. There was pressure from his family.
Her mother had arranged the adoption.
Tiantian came home.
And then—
Three years later—
She became pregnant.
Twins.
—
Tiantian had already begun to understand.
Lihua remembered one night.
She and Haitao were whispering in the bedroom.
A shadow moved past the door.
When she opened it, Tiantian stood at the end of the hallway, holding an empty cup.
Pretending to get water.
After that, she grew quieter.
More careful.
Too careful.
She brought water before being asked.
Placed slippers by the door.
A child who understood too early.
—
Lihua looked at her mother.
"We're not sending her away."
Her voice was calm.
But firm.
"She's not my biological child. But she is my child."
A pause.
"Haitao wouldn't agree either."
Silence.
Then her mother sighed.
"As long as you've thought it through."
The conversation ended.
In the pot, dumplings rose one by one.
—
"Tiantian is not leaving…"
The voice echoed in the dark.
Again.
And again.
—
William opened his eyes.
"You're dreaming again."
Sabrina blinked.
The room was dim.
The echo of her mother's voice still lingered.
"I'm fine," she said.
But her mind hadn't left the dream.
—
Morning came.
She couldn't fall back asleep.
Cold water on her face helped.
Today, she would speak to Susan.
Face to face.
The questions returned—
Keep her independent?
Assign support?
Replace her entirely?
She needed a decision.
Standing before the mirror, she realized—
What she feared wasn't conflict.
It was being the one who decides.
—
At the table, she began to write:
— Client expectations
— Design gaps
— Direction for revision
— Team collaboration
— Deadline
She paused.
Then added one more line:
— Keep it professional. No emotions.
As the pen lifted, something inside her settled.
—
Saturday morning.
William packed for a business trip.
After breakfast, she saw him off.
Back upstairs, she finished her yoga, stretched.
She had slept deeply. No dreams.
A rare ease.
Later, at the gym, she ran on the treadmill, then sat in the sauna.
Sweat, heat—
Her body felt fully awake again.
That night, Vivian called, inviting her to a fashion show next week—a new collection by a young Chinese designer.
After the call ended, Frank called.
His voice—loud, almost overflowing with excitement.
"One of the passengers I contacted," he said. "His name is Daniel. He's an assistant doctor at a hospital in Washington."
Sabrina sat up.
"He has the same dreams."
Her heartbeat quickened.
"They repeat. Just like ours."
A pause.
"He's coming to New York next month. We're meeting him."
Something shifted inside her.
A quiet day suddenly filled with anticipation.
Frank continued:
"He says his dreams are set in the 80s or 90s."
"Which city?"
"Beijing."
She froze.
"What does he do in the dream?"
"An ER doctor. A hospital near a park. He remembers the layout. Says the equipment feels outdated."
Something tightened in her chest.
"Near a park?"
"The hallways are narrow. Green tiles. Dim lighting. Handwritten schedules outside the operating room."
Green tiles.
Dim light.
Handwritten schedules.
A memory surfaced—
Haitao.
In the dream, Lihua's husband.
He had complained about outdated equipment.
Unstable lighting.
Last-minute schedule changes.
She had never thought much of it.
Until now.
"Daniel said," Frank continued, lowering his voice, "there was a night shift. Heavy rain. A blackout. The backup generator delayed."
Sabrina's breath slowed.
Rain.
Blackout.
School blackout.
Hospital blackout.
The air felt thin.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
"We need to meet him," Frank said.
"Yes."
Her voice was quiet.
Certain.
—
After the call, she sat still for a long time.
Outside, the city moved as usual.
Lights passing.
Distant traffic.
Then a thought—
If three people
Dreamed the same era,
Different lives,
But shared moments—
The same storms,
The same blackout—
Then this was no longer imagination.
It was something else.
Like pieces of a broken puzzle.
—
She walked to the window.
Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass.
And for the first time—
A quiet unease took hold.
If this wasn't a dream—
If it was something that had truly happened—
Then those people they had been—
Where were they now?
Did they still exist?
Or—
Had they already ended?
—
Her phone lit up again.
Frank.
"Daniel says he saw a woman in his dream."
"She was waiting outside an operating room. Wearing a light gray coat. Calm. Like she was holding something in."
Sabrina's fingers tightened.
In the dream—
Lihua had stood in that hallway.
Waiting.
Wearing gray.
The room fell silent.
So quiet—
She could almost hear her own heartbeat.