Early in the morning, Lihua received a call from her younger sister, Hongmei, in New York.
The voice on the other end was unusually calm—so calm that it made her uneasy. Hongmei said she would need to be hospitalized soon for surgery. Years ago, she had undergone an operation for breast cancer. This time, it was a glioma in her brain.
After hanging up, Lihua felt a weight in her chest so heavy it was almost suffocating.
After breakfast, she dropped the children off at school and daycare, then went to her mother's house. She told her that she would be traveling for work next month and asked if she could help take care of the three children. The tickets had already been booked.
She did not tell her the truth.
The last time Hongmei had surgery for breast cancer, their mother had nearly been crushed by anxiety. Their father had just passed away not long before, and Lihua still remembered clearly that sense of helplessness and fear. This time, she chose to bear it on her own, unwilling to let her mother endure that pain again.
Hongmei had always been the most cherished child in the family, two years younger than Lihua.
Lihua took after their father—square-faced, single eyelids, tall and slender, with a restrained and steady temperament.
Hongmei resembled their mother—delicate, petite, beautiful, lively. She loved dancing and painting, talented in many ways, as if she had been born with a light of her own.
Hongmei's ex-husband, Weimin, had been Lihua's classmate in college—one of the most popular boys on campus. When Hongmei visited the school, she met him and fell in love at first sight, pursuing him with determination. They later married, and when Weimin was sent to the United States, Hongmei accompanied him.
No one expected fate to quietly shift during a chance encounter on a train.
That day, Hongmei met her current husband, Michael. With his gray, slightly curled hair, he sat across from her, quietly reading. In that moment, he reminded her of the man she had always admired—Richard Gere.
When Michael got off the train, Hongmei had not yet reached her stop, but as if guided by something inexplicable, she followed him off, trailing behind at a distance.
Later, they got to know each other. Michael had recently divorced, and there was more than a decade between them. Eventually, Hongmei divorced as well and chose to be with him.
At the time, Lihua strongly opposed the relationship. Their mother was even more upset. Almost no one in the family supported her decision. Yet none of the objections shook Hongmei's resolve.
She had always been that kind of person—once she made up her mind, she would follow through without hesitation.
And now, sitting alone in a quiet room, Lihua suddenly realized that the sister who had always been loved, who laughed freely, who chased love boldly and lived with such freedom, was now facing a surgery of such magnitude.
Worry and heartache intertwined.
No matter how much they had argued or misunderstood each other in the past, blood ties and concern had never truly faded.
⸻
That morning, the showerhead in the bathroom broke, and Sabrina called the building management. Just last week, she and William had been discussing whether to buy an apartment they liked in Midtown. The property management there was far better than their current rental, with a much larger gym and even a swimming pool.
Sabrina had once planned to sell the small apartment her mother had bought for her during college and purchase a larger one together with William. The unit they were now considering was just the right size, conveniently located near both her office and William's law firm.
As she brushed her teeth, the remnants of last night's dream still lingered. The anxiety in the dream clung faintly to her thoughts—Lihua's worry about her sister's illness, and the fear that after she left, the children might wander to the pond again and fall into the water… The unease had not yet fully dissipated.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Jason, saying he would take the morning off and come in during the afternoon. Sabrina scrolled back to his message from the night before—he wanted to resign at the end of the month. He was dissatisfied with the current workload distribution, and the renovation project he was working on with Susan had stalled. Susan was stubborn, unwilling to accept Jason's proposals regarding the kitchen, the master bathroom, lighting adjustments, and wall material changes.
A wave of irritation rose in Sabrina's chest.
Jason was the strongest member of the team. If he left, the ongoing projects would inevitably suffer. Susan, though educated at a well-known design institute in China, held relatively outdated design concepts. The younger members lacked experience, and another had been hired through the boss's connections. In other words, Jason was the only one she could truly rely on.
Now that he was leaving, the team would soon face a serious shortage of capable hands. Anxiety crept in, unavoidable.
⸻
Hongmei had just come out of surgery.
Her head was wrapped in thick bandages, her face swollen and distorted. Her small body curled on the hospital bed, looking especially fragile.
At the sight, Lihua could no longer hold back her tears.
Hongmei slowly opened her eyes. With an IV still in her arm, she lifted her hand, trying to wipe away her sister's tears.
As a child, Hongmei used to cry easily—she was nicknamed "the little crybaby." Lihua could hardly remember herself ever crying; it had always been her sister.
And now, that once delicate and tender girl lay quietly in bed, without a single tear.
Perhaps everyone is given a cup of tears by fate—once you have cried them all, there are none left.
In the days before and after the surgery, Lihua stayed by her sister's side. She never saw even a trace of fear in Hongmei. Instead, it was Lihua whose emotions faltered, whose tears would not stop. She tried to control herself, but each time she saw how weak and worn her sister looked, her composure collapsed again.
⸻
That evening, Sabrina received a video call from her mother.
At first, it was to wish her an early happy birthday, her tone filled with familiar concern—and that unmistakable sense of presence.
Naturally, the conversation drifted to the topic that could never be avoided.
"Are you still taking the ovulation injections? Any signs?"
"If it's not working, maybe you should consider freezing your eggs. At your age, it will only get harder."
The voice was not harsh, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety.
After the call ended, a quiet irritation rose within Sabrina.
Almost every conversation ended the same way. Like a cycle she could not escape.
William's parents were traditional Hong Kong Chinese, but since his younger brother already had two children, the pressure of continuing the family line had not fallen on them. As for not having children yet, William had always been calm about it—almost indifferent.
And the reality was clear: both of them were busy with work, and their current lifestyle was not truly ready for the responsibility of raising a child. They did not want to make a rushed decision.
Still, the words "freezing eggs" landed like a small stone in her heart.
It wasn't entirely out of the question. Perhaps when William returned, they could sit down and talk about it seriously—not just to respond to her mother, but for themselves.
But not now.
Right now, she didn't want to think about any of it. The constant dreams, the struggles at work, the pressure—layer upon layer—pressed down on her until she could barely breathe.
She just wanted a moment of quiet.
Some questions, perhaps, can only be faced when the mind is calmer, more at ease.
⸻
The night in New York was still.
Sabrina set her phone down. The moment the screen went dark, the room seemed to empty with it.
Freezing eggs.
Glioma.
Three children.
A strange thought suddenly came to her—
In her dream, Lihua had never hesitated about whether to have children.
She had passively become a mother to Tingting,
and then unexpectedly pregnant with twins.
Life had simply placed responsibility in front of her.
She had no choice.
But in reality—
Sabrina had choices.
The choice of whether to have children.
The choice of freezing her eggs.
The choice of buying a home.
The choice of whether to retain Jason.
The choice of how firmly to deal with Susan.
Sometimes, the more choices one has,
the harder it becomes to decide.
That morning, Lihua brought some fresh fruit to the hospital. Sitting by the bed, she carefully washed and cut it into small pieces, then gently lifted a piece to Hongmei's lips.
The swelling from the surgery had not subsided. Hongmei's face was still badly distorted, her whole body frail and weak. Yet she forced herself to open her mouth, slowly swallowing the fruit her sister offered.
"Eat a little more," Lihua said softly. "The stronger your immune system, the faster you'll recover."
Even she didn't know how much she believed those words. Still, she repeated them again and again, as if encouragement alone could somehow make her sister heal faster.
The inflammation persisted. Hongmei had a constant fever, drenched in cold sweats, half her body exposed outside the blanket. Lihua stood up and gently pulled the covers back over her.
The door opened.
Michael walked in. He had just dropped Clara off at school and rushed back to the hospital. Seeing Lihua covering Hongmei with the blanket, he stepped forward immediately and pulled it off.
"She has a fever. We need to cool her down—she can't stay covered like this!"
He spoke quickly, his voice tight with urgency.
Lihua didn't argue. She simply stepped back in silence.
⸻
In the afternoon, Michael brought Clara to the hospital. The little girl stood by the bed, asking again and again when her mother could come home.
While Michael was outside speaking with the doctor, Lihua took out a chocolate peanut-filled cookie—Hongmei's favorite—from the drawer and handed it to Clara, hoping to calm her, to soften the atmosphere in the room.
As she wiped the sweat from Hongmei's forehead, she suddenly heard a dull thud behind her.
She turned sharply—
Clara had collapsed to the floor, her body convulsing.
For a split second, Lihua froze. Then a scream tore from her throat.
Michael and the doctor rushed in. The doctor saw the remaining cookie in Clara's hand and his face changed instantly.
"She ate this? Peanut allergy! Emergency treatment, now!"
The room erupted into chaos.
Lihua's mind went blank. She stood there, helpless, watching as the medical staff carried the child away.
Michael bent down and spoke urgently into Hongmei's ear. Lihua couldn't fully understand—her English wasn't strong enough—but she grasped the meaning.
She wasn't helping.
She was making things worse.
Perhaps… she should leave.
⸻
When Sabrina woke the next morning, a trace of tears still lingered at the corners of her eyes. She vaguely remembered the scene from her dream—Hongmei after the surgery.
It was her birthday.
She had plans with William to celebrate that evening at an Italian restaurant—the same place where they had their first date. When she walked in, William was already there, seated, having ordered. Two glasses of wine were brought to the table. Then he handed her a gift box.
Inside was a platinum Tiffany Key pendant necklace.
The year before, when they had passed by a Tiffany & Co. store, Sabrina had tried it on. She loved the design—the symbolism of a key, as if it could open a window into someone's heart—but she had thought it too expensive and hadn't considered buying it.
And now, here it was.
A warmth rose in her chest. She stood, leaned in, kissed William, and held his hand tightly.
After all these years together, she knew well that William was not a man of grand romantic gestures. His life was simple—aside from occasional golf games with old friends on weekends, he had few hobbies. But he gave her something far more important: steadiness, security.
Her parents had divorced when she was in elementary school. At sixteen, she came alone to the United States to study. Her mother had visited only twice. During holidays, she rarely returned home—she didn't want to hear her mother's constant complaints about her father.
Her mother had been a decisive, formidable general manager at a joint-venture company, but helpless in daily life. Sabrina had spent most of her childhood with her grandmother, never forming a close bond with her mother. Whenever her mother tried to hug her, she would instinctively recoil. She saw her father even less.
Growing up like that, she had always lacked a sense of stability and safety.
With William, that feeling finally existed—real, tangible.
No matter how much loneliness or unease she had known, having him beside her brought a quiet warmth into her life.
⸻
Lihua booked her flight. She would return home the day after tomorrow.
Before heading to the hospital, she packed some daily necessities for Hongmei, bought flowers and disposable supplies.
It felt as though she was preparing for a farewell she could not avoid.
The swelling in Hongmei's face had begun to subside. Her eyes could open a little wider now. Though still weak, she no longer looked as heart-wrenchingly fragile as before.
Instead, she comforted her sister.
"Lihua, don't worry. I'll get through this."
Lihua looked at her—this small, delicate sister—and felt her chest tighten.
She knew Hongmei too well—strong-willed, stubborn, never one to show weakness.
After her divorce, Hongmei had moved out almost immediately, first sharing an apartment with friends, then moving in with Michael. Later, she made an even bolder decision—to go to Paris to study fashion design.
She knew that a domestic degree alone was not enough to establish herself in New York.
After finishing her studies, she returned and worked in the design department of a fashion brand. She started as an assistant, then, through her talent, became a director's assistant and began designing individual pieces.
Eventually, the company sponsored her green card.
She had not relied on Michael to secure her status.
Independence was her bottom line.
Now, Lihua looked at her lying in the hospital bed—that once confident, defiant face, always slightly lifted with pride, now thin and pale from surgery.
But the strength was still there.
Silently, Lihua prayed.
Perhaps that stubborn strength would carry her through.
⸻
On Friday afternoon, Sabrina received a message from Vivian, asking if she had plans for Saturday night—there was a small VIP event.
It was organized by the Chinese designer Clara, whose show they had attended not long ago. The event was intimate, invitation-only, featuring a few special pieces for sale. The proceeds would go to a medical charity focused on breast cancer research.
Sabrina had no particular plans. After weeks of overtime work, she needed a break. She agreed.
On Saturday evening, she arrived with Vivian. The space was small but beautifully arranged—layered lighting, soft shadows, an understated elegance.
The guests were few, but impeccably dressed. In comparison, Sabrina felt slightly rushed—she had been working on designs all day, bringing unfinished projects home. She had only tied her hair quickly before leaving, even forgetting to take off her glasses.
While browsing, a small handwoven bag caught her eye. Its design was unique, with a Chinese knot tassel hanging from the zipper, swaying gently—subtle, refined, distinctly Eastern.
As she leaned closer, the young designer approached.
Then suddenly stopped.
She stared at Sabrina, as if something had locked her gaze in place.
"You look just like my aunt… when she was young."
Her voice trembled.
"Really… it's uncanny. And those square-framed glasses… exactly the same."
She didn't blink, as if comparing, as if confirming a memory across time.
The air fell still.
Softly, she asked,
"May I hug you?"
Sabrina hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
The embrace was light, yet carried an unspoken warmth.
Clara didn't charge her for the bag.
"I'm so happy you like my design. Consider it a gift."
"For my 'young aunt.'"
⸻
On the way home, Sabrina felt something subtle lingering in her heart.
The way Clara had looked at her—like a long-awaited reunion, eyes shimmering with emotion—would not leave her mind.
It wasn't politeness.
It was as if, for a fleeting moment, she had become someone's gentle memory.
A strangely beautiful encounter.
⸻
Daniel would arrive in New York tomorrow. Frank had already arranged to meet the following evening.
Sabrina felt a quiet excitement, mixed with anticipation. She tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.
In that hazy state, she heard Lihua and Haitao discussing Hongmei's condition…
As an experienced neurosurgeon, Haitao was not optimistic about the surgery.
A few days earlier, Michael had called from New York. He insisted on bringing Hongmei home. After multiple rounds of chemotherapy, her hair had fallen out completely, her body growing weaker. He believed what she needed now was dignity—and the presence of family.
At first, Lihua had opposed the idea. She didn't know how to face what was happening. She wanted Haitao's opinion.
Haitao believed that for late-stage glioma, even surgery followed by chemotherapy rarely led to a cure. If Michael wanted to bring her home, to care for her with patience and companionship, it might be the better choice.
Lihua fell silent.
In these past days, strands of gray had appeared in her hair, which was falling out in clumps. She couldn't tell their mother—she didn't dare.
⸻
The three children burst into the bedroom, arguing noisily, interrupting their conversation. The dispute was over what shoes to wear the next day.
Tingting had prepared an old pair of sneakers for Yangyang, but he insisted on wearing the new pair his mother had bought him in New York.
Watching them—so full of life—Lihua felt a complicated mix of emotions.
Life, she knew, would go on.
⸻
From deep within the bar came a low, distant sound.
The didgeridoo hummed steadily, as if rising from the depths of the earth. The djembe's rhythm was slow and measured—like a heartbeat, like the breath of an ancient ritual.
The sound was mysterious, faraway—like wind crossing an endless plain, stirring dust and memory; like an ancient call in the night, drawing one into stillness.
Sabrina arrived early.
Soon, Frank walked in with a tall, slender man. They sat beside her. Frank introduced him—Daniel, the man from their flight.
Daniel lifted his glass, gently swirling the drink. He said he liked the music—it reminded him of melodies he had heard as a child at his African grandmother's home.
A year ago, after breaking up with his girlfriend—who worked at the same hospital—he moved to DC. This trip to New York was for her wedding.
Daniel spoke of liking a nomadic life—though his work didn't allow frequent moves, he cherished the feeling of drifting freedom.
He had once written about their flight online. Someone had commented—a woman who claimed she had been over two months pregnant before boarding, but after returning to New York, doctors told her she had never been pregnant.
The comment unsettled him.
Official records showed the flight had made an emergency landing due to weather. Normally, it should have taken thirteen hours. Subtracting the delay, Daniel's watch showed sixteen hours total. Before landing, he had adjusted for time difference—but afterward, he noticed his watch was off by exactly three hours compared to the airport clocks.
Where had those three extra hours gone?
Had the flight briefly vanished—slipped into a fracture in time?
Or had some quantum divergence quietly formed?
Were they survivors…
or replacements?
⸻
In the bar, soft conversations and the clinking of glasses blended with the rhythm of the drums.
Sabrina closed her eyes.
Her mother. Lihua. Hongmei. Her own life.
Time seemed both stretched and compressed. Reality and memory, dreams and parallel worlds overlapped within the same space.
When she opened her eyes again and looked at Frank and Daniel, she exhaled softly.
This time, she was no longer just an observer.
She was connected—to Lihua in her dreams, to those fragmented timelines—by something unseen yet undeniable.
⸻
Back in her apartment, Sabrina took off her coat and dropped her bag onto the sofa. Nightlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shifting shadows on the walls.
She sat down, exhausted, but her mind refused to settle.
The low hum of the didgeridoo still echoed in her head, like an invisible thread pulling her back to something distant yet familiar.
Sleep came slowly.
But instead of her usual dreams, she found herself in that train carriage—the place where Hongmei and Michael had first met.
Sunlight streamed through the window. The colors of the seats, the scent in the air, the faint warmth of the wooden frame—everything felt vividly real.
Hongmei sat at one end.
Sabrina realized she was there too—not as her past self, but as something blurred, like a shadow, standing at a distance, watching.
Across the aisle, the man reading slowly lifted his head.
Her heart trembled.
Memory and reality overlapped. She understood—this meeting on the train was not merely the past, but something still unfolding in a parallel layer of time. She, Hongmei, and Michael moved along different paths, yet their timelines cast overlapping shadows.
She tried to reach out—
but touched nothing.
The train roared forward, wheels grinding against the tracks like the gears of time. Each vibration struck softly against her chest, as if reminding her:
Memory is not illusion.
It is a hidden path into reality.
Hongmei lifted her head at the same moment and smiled.
That smile overlapped with the one Sabrina remembered—from the hospital bed, from the future.
"Lihua, don't worry. I'll get through this."
As the train entered a tunnel, the light flickered. Sabrina's vision blurred. In the distance, she heard the low hum of the didgeridoo again—like the echo of the bar, like a call from the night.
Dream and reality intertwined.
She felt herself pulled between two timelines—unable to move forward, unable to retreat.
Then—
a gentle touch.
She opened her eyes.
Not the train.
Her bedroom.
Beside her, William slept soundly, his breathing steady.
Sabrina took a deep breath.
She understood now—
None of this was accidental.
Reality. Dreams. The train. Parallel timelines.
The connections had always been there, buried deep within memory and time, waiting to be awakened.
She closed her eyes again, turned slightly, and took William's hand.
A quiet promise to the future—
No matter how uncertain life might become, she would stay, would face it, would hold on to the people she loved.
And she would cherish those fleeting, gentle moments—
that had crossed time to find her.