Early in spring, Li Ming caught COVID-19.
At first, it was only a mild discomfort. Her throat was dry and sore, her body slightly heavy. She assumed it was the result of several consecutive weeks of pushing projects, staying up late under the office lights. Only when her temperature steadily climbed did she realize something was wrong.
The streets of Washington suddenly emptied. Traffic seemed paused mid-flow, office buildings went dark floor by floor, and the wind rustled the branches of the trees. From her window, Li Ming watched the sunlight fall in dappled patterns on the ground, as if even time itself had stretched.
In her bedroom, medicine bottles stood neatly on a wooden tray, the spoon beside her water glass tilted slightly, and the water in the vase on the windowsill gently rippled, reflecting the shadow of the white wall. Time moved slowly, the boundary between day and night blurred. Messages kept popping up—client inquiries, team discussions, project revisions—but she had no energy to deal with them. She simply left her phone by the bedside, scrolling lightly.
The next day, Dawei arrived. He said little, simply organizing the documents on the table and taking over the ongoing projects at the firm. Client communications, plan adjustments, team assignments—everything was arranged. He even took care of small daily matters: placing her medicine and food by the door. Li Ming lay in bed, watching him move around the living room, her fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the bedsheet, feeling a faint sense of comfort.
One afternoon, her phone rang. The screen showed her elder brother's number.
When she answered, his voice was heavy: "Dad… he… contracted COVID."
The words struck her like icy water, freezing her in place. Halfway through the sentence, his voice choked: "…he's already gone."
She gripped the phone, her fingertips cold, her mind blank. Sunlight filtered through the window, casting mottled patterns on the floor, curtains fluttering in the wind. The world's sounds continued outside; the streets remained empty. But the weight in her chest was unshakable.
She tried contacting airlines to fly back to Harbin as quickly as possible. But flights were widely canceled, responses to emails and calls were slow and indifferent. Each refresh of her inbox felt like a knife against her chest—unable to return, unable to attend to her father's passing with her own hands.
For days, she lay in bed, her attention drifting between memory and reality. She recalled Harbin winters as a child, her father draping thick coats over her shoulders; his quiet, habitual words of caution. Every familiar detail seemed magnified—warm yet distant—bringing a mix of solace and unreachable melancholy.
Projects at the firm stalled, construction sites paused. Emails and video meetings replaced in-person discussions, but many details could not move forward. For the first time, Li Ming realized that even the firm she had built with her own hands was not immune to risks.
Even after her fever broke, her body remained heavy. During video meetings with Dawei, her focus would lapse, words faltering mid-sentence. His voice remained calm: "I'll handle this part; you rest first." She suddenly understood—some things did not require her personal oversight to continue smoothly.
She began to slow down. Mornings, she brewed a cup of coffee, carrying it to the window. Sunlight slanted through the glass, casting long gray shadows on the floor. Occasionally, she heard construction from the street or the rustle of leaves in the wind, and she felt a rare, long-missed peace.
Gradually, time passed, and she recovered. Returning to the firm, she found both the city and office slowly waking. People cycled along the streets, pushed strollers, and construction machines hummed back to life. In the meeting room, she and Dawei stood over the revised plans, papers neatly laid out, notes clearly marked.
Outside, cherry blossoms swayed gently in the sunlight, their shadows dappled on the water, petals drifting slowly, scattering with the wind. The pandemic had ended. Time and life now moved at a slower rhythm than she had once known.
Her father's death weighed on her like a stone she could not lift. She had not been able to say goodbye in person, yet she had learned to let life continue. Every breath, every ray of light, carried the trace of loss, yet also the gentle promise of moving forward. She gradually embraced the life that remained, with all its fragility and quiet endurance.