Early in the morning, Sabrina sat by the window, cradling a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Sunlight filtered through the glass, casting dappled patterns on the tabletop, but her mind was anything but still. Clara's words from a few days ago—"fated from a previous life…"—kept looping quietly in her thoughts, delicate threads winding through her heart.
Sitting at the table, pencil in hand, Sabrina sketched scenes from her dream: the train carriage, the man with soft gray curls reading quietly, the young woman smiling gently…
"Who are these two in your drawing?" William asked, pointing at her sketch.
Sabrina froze for a moment, her coffee trembling slightly in her hands. She glanced down at the paper, and the memory of that train carriage flashed in her mind—where Hongmei first met Michael, the light, the scent in the air, the subtle heartbeat of that moment… as if a tear in time were opening right there.
"Maybe… people I saw in a dream," she said softly.
Outside, the wind rustled the leaves, whispering through the trees. Sabrina felt suddenly that the scene in the carriage was symbolic—time folding in on itself, past and present brushing lightly along parallel lines. She looked at William, silently telling herself: whether dream or reality, the bonds of family—the care, protection, and love—always find a way to travel through time and light the way for one another.
In that moment, Sabrina felt a strange sense of calm—like the train passing through mist in a dream, or like her breathing syncing with Lihua's in the dream, creating an invisible but tangible thread between reality and imagination.
Sunlight poured through the window onto the neat breakfast table. Maria moved about the kitchen, sprinkling chopped tomatoes over freshly steamed eggs, serving a slice of whole-grain bread. Hongmei, though lacking appetite, ate a little with effort. After breakfast, Maria helped her wash up and get dressed, then gently supported her for a slow walk along the path outside. The weather was unusually bright, the air carrying the scent of grass and flowers. Hongmei picked up a few fallen leaves along the way, thinking about the small crafts she would teach Clara over the weekend.
By noon, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of coconut milk and spices. Maria brought out a plate of coconut curry shrimp, the shrimp finely chopped, paired with bitter melon stir-fried with eggs and a small serving of rice. Hongmei's appetite had returned, and she ate heartily. Afterward, she lay back on the bed, closing her eyes slightly to enjoy the warm sunlight filtering through the curtains.
In the afternoon, Clara returned from school. Hongmei sat upright, patiently teaching her Chinese, guiding her stroke by stroke, pausing occasionally for her to practice pronunciation. Clara's Filipino accent made Hongmei laugh out loud, a rare lightness in the room.
As evening approached, the light dimmed softly. Clara ran into the bedroom, turning on the bedside lamp and floor lamp one by one, knowing her mother liked the room bright. From the kitchen came the rhythmic sounds of utensils—Maria was preparing aromatic Adobo, pork slowly simmering in soy sauce and vinegar, accompanied by shredded carrots and sautéed spinach, with a bowl of sour fish soup. Around the dinner table, Michael and Clara whispered and laughed quietly. The scent of the sour fish soup filled the room, and Hongmei felt a long-missed sense of happiness and contentment.
Before going to bed, Hongmei called her sister, Lihua. On the other end, Lihua's mood brightened instantly upon hearing her sister's lighthearted voice. Outside, the sky was a deep blue, sunlight streaming warmly. Lihua hung up, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes, savoring the moment—this present moment felt undeniably good.
After days of rain, the sky had finally cleared.
Sabrina, preparing her dress for the evening concert, picked out a matching jacket from William's wardrobe. Just as she hung the clothes, William came over and asked if they could reschedule the concert for someone else—he needed to visit his brother that evening. That morning, William's brother had called: their father's Alzheimer's had worsened, with two recent incidents of wandering, requiring police intervention. Just yesterday, he had tried to scoop water from the toilet for a thirsty child, fortunately stopped in time. The situation was worrying, and they needed to plan their next steps together.
When William finished, Sabrina asked if she should accompany him. He shook his head. "Not today. Another time."
During past holidays, she had often joined William to visit his parents in Connecticut, where they all lived together. But each time, the family spoke Cantonese rapidly, and Sabrina understood little, awkwardly sitting aside. Over time, she participated less, and William never expressed any disappointment or expectation—he never wanted to burden her.
Later, Sabrina texted Vivian, asking if she was free for the concert. Soon, Vivian called, currently visiting an exhibition with Clara. She mentioned that Clara had been impressed by Sabrina during their last small VIP event, feeling an uncanny, familiar connection, hoping to meet again. Vivian had plans that evening but asked if Sabrina would go to the concert with Clara.
After the concert, Sabrina returned home. William had not yet arrived. She sat on the sofa, her mind still replaying Clara's words—that she seemed like a relative from a past life. Those words, like an invisible thread, wove together Sabrina and Clara, past and present.
The familiar scent emanating from Sabrina—the delicate jasmine of her Hermes 24 Faubourg perfume—reminded Clara of her mother's favorite fragrance, reappearing now on Sabrina. All these coincidences intertwined, leaving Clara astonished: the curiosity, the shared scent, the sense of déjà vu…
Clara's words echoed softly in Sabrina's mind. In the haze of her thoughts, she leaned against the sofa, closed her eyes, and gradually drifted into drowsiness, as if the world had quieted, leaving only memory flowing gently through the air.
Haotao returned home after work. During dinner, he told Lihua he would be joining a medical aid team to Tibet next month.
Last week, Lihua had received a call from Michael: Hongmei's condition was deteriorating, her vision failing, one eye barely able to see. During the call, Hongmei's speech had become slurred.
Following that conversation, Lihua had spent several days in a haze of worry, sometimes forgetting to pick up the children—her state was completely uncontrollable. Adding to her anxiety, her mother had fallen off a bicycle on her way home from dropping off the children at kindergarten. Fortunately, there were no fractures, only a strained back, leaving her temporarily unable to help. Almost all household responsibilities fell to Lihua.
Haotao had just been promoted to department chief, and Lihua felt it would be inappropriate to ask him to skip the Tibet mission. Lost in thought, she was suddenly interrupted when Tingting asked, "Who's going to the parent-teacher meeting tomorrow, Dad or Mom?"