"I'm sorry, but you have to leave."
Shi Qi sat stiffly. The chair was cold beneath her hands, the air in the office faintly dry, humming through the vents.
Across from her, Mr Lin's fingers tapped the file once, twice, a sound too small for what he was saying. It took a moment for the words to settle, to mean what they meant.
Mr Lin sighed and leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. "The business is struggling… we have no choice but to downsize."
He paused, gesturing toward the glass wall behind him. "Most of those," he said, nodding at the rows of desks beyond, "are fresh grads. Still inexperienced. It'll be hard for them to find jobs these days."
Then his finger dropped back to her. "But you—you're bright. Still young, with years of sales experience. I'm sure it'll be easier for you to find something new." He tried to smile, the kind meant to soften a blow. "I can even write you a reference letter if you'd like."
The rest blurred after that. His voice kept moving, but the meaning slipped away somewhere between the words.
Young?
She was forty.
Her gaze drifted past him to the office beyond—rows of desks, phones ringing. The ones who stayed were girls half her age, fresh-faced and laughing softly between calls.
They didn't have to fight for sales. Their youth alone was enough.
Clients liked pretty faces. Managers did too. The world always leaned that way—toward bright smiles and easy charm. She'd once seen a new girl laugh over coffee with a visiting manager, then walk away with a contract worth more than her entire quarterly target.
But Shi Qi had spent years learning to read hesitation, to pull a deal back from collapse. Skill. Instinct. All of it built the hard way. Yet it never seemed to weigh as much as youth. Maybe once, when she was younger.
Lately, she could feel the shift—the way glances passed over her, already moving on to someone fresher.
And there she was, her own reflection in the glass. Lines beneath tired eyes. Skin dulled by long nights. The only glow came from makeup layered too thick, trying to hide what it couldn't.
She was getting old.
When she finally stepped out of the building, his words still echoed. It'll be easier for you.
Bullshit.
Shi Qi shifted the box in her arms, the weight biting into her palms until her fingers ached. Heat gathered in her throat, but the tears that rose weren't grief. They were rage.
Still, she walked. The crowd carried her until the flow thinned at a crossing. She stopped at the curb—there, yet not really there.
It felt unfair.
She had worked her whole life believing effort would be enough. Her father had too—hands rough, worn down, yet he kept showing up because stopping wasn't something he knew how to do. That was the only memory he left her with, and it became the only way she knew how to live.
Work. Strive. Endure.
Half her life was already gone. Thirty, maybe forty years left if she was lucky. What did she have to show for it? Money, yes—scraped and clawed through effort. But no job now. No partner. Not even a cat waiting at home.
The light changed again. Feet began to move. The city carried on without her. Shi Qi stayed where she was, watching the flow of people slip past and wondering when effort stopped being enough.
Then someone brushed her shoulder hard enough to jolt the box. A man. He didn't look back, just cut into the street as the light turned yellow. The bump snapped her back to the present—the wet sheen of the road, the faint drizzle still clinging to the air.
Ah… right. I need to cross.
Her body moved before the thought was done. She stepped off the curb, the box pressed tight against her chest. Rain gathered at her lashes, soft and cold, blurring the glow of the streetlights.
A sharp horn cut through the air. For a heartbeat, she stood still, unsure where it came from. Then the sound swelled, filling her chest until she could hardly breathe. Headlights flared white across her vision. Her breath caught. She tried to step back, but her legs wouldn't move.
The tires screeched against the wet road, and something struck her, knocking the air from her lungs before she could scream. For a moment she lifted, weightless, the world tilting away beneath her.
Then gravity pulled her down. The ground hit hard, cold spreading through her spine. The box slipped from her grasp, papers scattering in the rain.
…..
No, no, no.
This can't be happening.
The world spun in fragments. Her body stayed where it fell, breath broken and shallow. The pavement was cold against her cheek, the water seeping through her clothes until she couldn't tell what was blood and what was rain.
Somewhere nearby, voices rose and scattered, their words lost in the noise. Shapes leaned over her, faces blurred and shifting, mouths moving without sound. Everything felt distant, as if she were watching from under water.
Her chest strained for air that wouldn't come. The cold sank deeper, spreading through her limbs until she couldn't feel her hands. Streetlights flickered above—weak, trembling, their glow bending in the rain.
I can't… end like this…
The thought barely formed before the darkness swallowed it.
No more pain.
No sound.
Just nothing.
....
....
And then—
A breath tore through the silence.
Shi Qi's eyes opened to a ceiling of dark wood, the beams split deep with age. The air was damp, thick with the smell of earth and old cloth. Warmth pressed faintly against her skin, heavier than the cold she remembered.
Her stomach turned, nausea rising sharp and quick before fading again. She stayed still, breathing through it, her mind flickering between fragments of memory.
Where am I? Was that accident…a dream?
Slowly, she pushed herself upright. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, rough against her skin. Her body felt light—too light. Each movement wavered, uncertain, as if her body were struggling to remember how to hold itself up.
She lifted her hands closer, staring at them as confusion crept in.
Small. Round. Soft.
Not her hands.
A child's.
Her breath quickened as she turned them over again, palms trembling in the dim light. On impulse, she pinched her cheek hard. A sting bloomed—sharp and very real.
It hurt.
Her pulse raced. Not a dream. She was alive.
Shi Qi's gaze drifted across the room. The walls were cracked, the furniture worn with age. In the corner stood a crooked table with a bowl resting on it, the faint scent of herbs still hanging in the air.
She turned slowly, scanning for anything reflective—a mirror, a pane of glass, anything at all. She needed to see, needed to know what face would look back at her.
But before she could move, the door creaked open.
A woman stepped in, her hair catching the light in soft shades of brown and red. When her eyes found Shi Qi, the tension in her face eased into clear relief.
"Are you feeling better now?" she asked, her voice gentle, filling the small room. She came closer and brushed her fingers across Shi Qi's forehead. The touch was cool against her skin.
"The fever's gone," she murmured, her tone softening. "Yao Yao, you really scared me."
Shi Qi went still.
Yao Yao?
Is that… my name?
Her lips parted, but her throat rasped dry. Only a cough came out.
"Don't strain yourself, I'll get you some water."
The woman lifted a cup and held it to her lips, tilting it slowly until the water met her mouth. The first sip was cool, sliding down her throat and easing the dryness.
Without thinking, Shi Qi leaned forward, her small frame pressing lightly against the woman's arm. The touch felt like a half-embrace—the kind a mother might give. Strange. Comforting. She had never known what a mother's love was like, but if it had shape, if it had touch—maybe this was it.
That warmth loosened something inside her. The memory of the accident came back—the noise, the cold, the sudden end of everything. Then the office, the unfairness of it, the confusion of why she was here. Her chest tightened, and before she could stop it, a tear slipped down her cheek.
It was only a tear—one line of salt down her cheek.
But before long, more followed. Her grief swelled, too large for the small frame that tried to contain it. It climbed her throat, breaking into a fragile sob that caught once, then again, before spilling free.
Her sobs grew, shaking her chest until they broke into an unrestrained wail. The sound tore out of her, as though she was trying to empty everything she had carried.
And deep inside, she felt something stir—a faint pulse, low and steady at first, rising and falling in rhythm with each sob, as if answering her cries. It moved with her grief, echoing it, growing stronger with every breath until—
It surged out.
A wave burst across the room, rattling the furniture and slamming against the walls. The woman's hair whipped back as the window shattered, sending shards of glass across the floor.
Yao Yao stopped mid-sob, breath caught in her throat. Her eyes were still wet, but now frozen in shock.
Right beside her, the woman stared the same way—stunned.
Oh crap. We're already broke, and now I broke our window.