The air in Hong Kong still carried that familiar dampness. News of his grandfather's illness had brought Frank rushing back from New York.
He spent his days at the hospital by his grandfather's side, but at night, he was often pulled into the recurring dream—the one where the layout of an office, the corner of a corridor, the sky beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, all felt uncannily real. Not imaginary.
Finally, he followed the memory from his dream to that building. The elevator rose slowly, the numbers ticking upward, and his heart rose with them. The moment the doors opened, he felt he could almost anticipate the glass door at the end of the corridor.
He walked along the familiar-yet-strange hallway, stopping in front of the office door from his dream. Hesitating for a moment, the door suddenly swung open from the inside. A young man carrying files nearly collided with him.
"Sorry," the man said politely, stepping aside.
Frank paused, then asked awkwardly, "Excuse me… is there an accounting firm on this floor? Or was there one before…"
The young man thought for a moment. "Most of the offices here are law firms. Our company does legal work. An accounting firm? I haven't heard of one."
Silence fell along the corridor. Frank nodded and thanked him, but inside, a strange emptiness stirred—the kind of reality that felt almost too vivid to dismiss.
As he was leaving, the young man added, "I can ask the most senior colleague in our company. He's been here for years…"
They exchanged contact information. When Frank stepped out of the building, sunlight reflected off the glass curtain wall.
A few days later, Frank received a message from the young man:
"I asked. The senior colleague said that before our law firm moved in, this office had indeed been an accounting firm."
The light of the screen shone in Frank's eyes.
The dream had left a subtle but tangible trace in reality.
In that moment, his excitement mingled with a shiver, as if some unwalked path of life were echoing through time, calling out to him.
Back in New York, the impression of that Hong Kong office tower lingered in Frank's mind. Driven by urgency, he once again organized a gathering.
Frank spoke first. He recounted Hong Kong, the office tower from his dream, the pounding of his heart when he stepped into that office, and finally, the confirmation that an accounting firm had actually existed there. His voice was faster than usual, eyes still lit with unspent excitement.
"Maybe it's not coincidence," he said. "Perhaps there really is a connection between dreams and reality."
Some nodded, others expressed doubt. The debate wavered between reason and unease.
Mary arrived. She sat by the window, hands clasped, silent, quiet. The last time they met, she had recounted her vanished pregnancy. Eyes lingered on her, as if expecting more.
Sabrina was there, too. She watched everyone speak, quietly noting the subtle shifts in their tones. Recently, she had been reading Story of Your Life. The nonlinear conception of time in the aliens' language fascinated her. In the book, the protagonist Louise sees the sadness of the future but chooses to live through it—a choice that resonated deeply with her.
Sabrina felt a strange calm grow within her, a thread connecting dreams and reality, time and emotion.
When someone suggested the idea of "parallel timelines," Frank looked at her. Sabrina did not answer, just met his gaze briefly. No affirmation, no denial—only clear, calm observation.
She understood that everyone was trying to ascribe meaning to the unknown. And meaning itself was often just a human shield against uncertainty.
Night fell over New York City, and the dreams continued…
In the evening, the office lights dimmed. Sabrina was preparing to leave when her phone vibrated.
It was Frank.
She answered, hearing his urgent, strained voice: "Mary… she's dead."
A pause.
"Second suicide."
Over the past year, Mary had been haunted by recurring dreams. At the last gathering, she had not spoken. Later, she called Frank, saying she kept seeing the future in her dreams—a child, the child with the father—but she was never in it. The absence itself felt like a warning.
Before boarding a plane, she had once been pregnant. That life, never confirmed, had quietly disappeared. She began to associate the child in her dreams with that lost pregnancy.
In reality, Mary had been single since breaking up with her ex two years prior. Yet in her dreams, she constantly witnessed a "future that had already happened"—a child and father living, without her in it.
This recurring vision tormented her. She doubted time, reality, and whether she had already missed an irreversible timeline.
Frank's voice lowered: "She said… it wasn't an ordinary dream. It was like seeing something ahead of time…"
Sabrina stood still, fingers tightening slightly.
Outside, the sky darkened.
The news fell like a stone, shattering their previous discussions about "dreams connecting with reality." No longer curiosity, no longer excitement—only unavoidable gravity.
Dreams were no longer a puzzle.
They had become a cost.
After hanging up, the office was silent except for the low hum of the air conditioner.
Sabrina did not leave immediately. She realized that some people try to find meaning in the unknown… while others are consumed by meaning itself.
A few days later, Frank organized another meeting.
Mary's passing hung over everyone like a weight, making discussion about dreams heavy and hesitant.
At dusk, they gathered at the familiar bar. The lights were dim, glasses clinking faintly behind the counter. Outside, New York City sank into night.
The atmosphere was different. Conversations were quiet.
Frank spoke last, more measured than usual, carefully choosing words:
"I've been thinking," he said, "what did Mary's dreams really mean?"
No immediate response.
Some stared at their glasses, others leaned back in silence.
Frank continued: "If the child in her dream… is truly a possible future, does that mean—some things have already happened, we just haven't reached them yet?"
The air grew heavier.
Someone frowned. "But if it's the future, why wasn't she in it?"
No one could answer.
Sabrina sat by the window, silent. She recalled Story of Your Life. The protagonist could see past and future yet still chose to live—not because the future could be changed, but because every present moment held meaning.
Suddenly she realized, perhaps the question was not whether the dreams were real.
The real question was—
If someone glimpsed the future, could they bear the weight of living on?
Someone across the table finally spoke.
"Maybe Mary just trusted that dream too much."
Rational, firm.
"Dreams are just the brain processing information. Every day we encounter fragments; the mind rearranges them. Sometimes they align with reality—just chance."
Frank said nothing, eyes lingering on the tabletop.
After a while, he whispered:
"But that office in Hong Kong… that was not chance."
Silence returned.
Outside, night deepened. Streetlights flickered on, reflecting off the glass.
Sabrina felt a strange sensation.
They seemed to be standing at an invisible crossroads.
Some believed in reason.
Some believed in fate.
And some—had begun to fear the dreams themselves.
She looked at Frank.
In that moment, a thought struck her:
If the dreams truly came from some yet-to-come time—
Then perhaps they were all simply walking toward that answer.
And that answer… might not be gentle.
Soft music played in the bar.
No one spoke again.
But each of them carried an unignorable fissure in their heart.
The dream remained.
And reality seemed to inch ever closer to it.
"If dreams come from the future… is it possible we are dreaming of an alternate timeline that has already happened?"