After the heating went out, the temperature in the house plummeted, and the cold seeped through the walls into every corner. The children wore down jackets and thermal underwear, hopping around indoors to stay warm, but the chill still made them shiver. Beijing had entered a semi-lockdown; schools were closed. Several local students in Lihua's class had already gone home, while students from other provinces remained in their dorms under strict containment. The city seemed to have pressed pause.
At the same time, hospital admissions surged. People were anxious, and the streets were empty. Tiantan Hospital was designated as a SARS treatment center, primarily admitting suspected and confirmed cases, especially mild and moderate patients. All medical staff underwent strict SARS protection training. Wards were reconfigured into isolation units, and staff infection risk was extremely high. Departments in direct contact with patients rarely allowed staff to go home. Most of their time was spent either at the hospital or in rest areas. Only after shift approval, health checks, and disinfection procedures could a staff member briefly return home.
Haitao hadn't gone home for more than half a month. He chose to remain at the hospital, fearing he might bring the virus back and endanger his family. He had witnessed several critically ill patients die in a short span of time, which weighed heavily on him. Ten-plus-hour workdays were physically exhausting but manageable; it was the constant anxiety and worry that frayed his nerves. He could never be sure how Lihua and the children were faring at home. Every call back, Lihua's calm yet resolute voice reassured him: "Everything is fine at home. Focus on protecting yourself at the hospital. Don't worry about us."
The family's planned May Day trip south to visit Haitao's parents was canceled. Outsiders were wary of visitors from Beijing; hotels refused service, and neighborhood committees even conducted checks.
During this period, Lihua suggested her mother move in with them, but her mother, used to living alone for years, refused. So Lihua would bring fresh vegetables and daily necessities to her mother every few days while running errands. Each time she went out, she wore a mask, and upon returning home, she disinfected thoroughly. As the family's pillar, Lihua could not falter; every precaution was to protect her family and allow Haitao to work at the hospital without worry.
The cold wind outside mirrored the city's eerie stillness, and the mutual care and support among family members became their last line of defense in this pandemic.
At night, the dreams continued to haunt Sabrina. Lihua appeared in Beijing in early spring 2003, in the midst of the SARS outbreak. Sabrina scrolled through archived news, watching the numbers rise—each one weighed heavily, pressing on her chest. The fear and anxiety Lihua had felt extended like a ghost into the present, connecting to the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020.
Nature repeatedly delivered harsh lessons, warning humanity to respect it. Human arrogance and forgetfulness, rather than nature itself, were the true roots of recurring disasters.
Dreams and reality intertwined; past and present reflected one another.
Sabrina sat by the window, scrolling through pandemic news on her phone. The dream Beijing was cold, streets deserted, people hurried past wearing masks. Time seemed to repeat itself across different eras. Humans experienced similar fears over and over, yet seemed to forget quickly. Cities expanded, forests disappeared, rivers were polluted—the weight on the planet kept growing.
Sabrina closed her eyes and silently prayed. She hoped that Lihua and her family in the dream would get through the epidemic safely. She wished Clara's father would recover slowly. And she hoped that everyone around her would remain unharmed in this storm.
When Sabrina woke up in the morning, her eyes were swollen from allergies, barely able to open, the world blurred. The city had come to a standstill. Pharmacies were closed, and the medicine at home had run out.
A sense of entrapment quietly spread—not just physical discomfort, but psychological anxiety, a feeling that everything was out of control.
In New York City, tension was high. Debates over the virus's origin erupted, and people faced scrutiny for wearing masks. Last week, during a video call, Vivian complained that while shopping with a mask, she was gawked at and overheard remarks like "Chinese brought the virus," laced with prejudice. Such words angered and frustrated her.
When societal fear spreads, many turn it into blame. Perhaps it stems from fear of the unknown, but those who truly bear the harm and stress are the ones pointed at.
"May this all end soon, and things return to normal," Sabrina silently prayed.
Every major social upheaval gives the illusion of an endless abyss. But time gradually softens everything. Cities restore order, pharmacies reopen, people return to the streets. "Normal" may not be exactly as it was before, but life will eventually find its balance again.