Isabella Yang knew with absolute certainty that she was dying.
As the nurse wheeled her hospital bed toward the operating room, she turned her head and caught a glimpse of her parents clasping hands, her younger brother standing nearby waving at her. In that instant, a sudden, unshakable premonition took hold—she knew she would not emerge alive from that operating room.
Perhaps she should have reacted more dramatically, Isabella thought—like in those Latin American soap operas Gabriela loved watching from the next bed. She should have tumbled off the bed, stagger toward her parents and brother, utterly unconcerned that her flapping hospital gown would elevate the drama to a TV-MA rating. Her normally straight black hair would miraculously transform into shimmering, voluminous waves, blown back by a mysterious gust from the hospital's central air conditioning system, creating a shampoo commercial effect.
After seven or eight seconds of slow-motion, she finally collapsed into her parents' arms, tears streaming down her face, lips trembling, her expression screaming the resentment and refusal to accept being written out of the show for refusing to play the game. Ideally, a dark-haired man with wild Latin charm would have burst through the hospital corridor doors, shouting, "Isabella, you can't die—"
But none of this happened.
Isabella simply lay still in her hospital bed until the closed doors of the surgical wing blocked her view of her family. A single tear escaped her dry, unblinking eyes, only to be wiped away immediately.
After sixteen long years as a patient, Isabella had learned the harsh truth: no one wants to see a gravely ill child cry.
"Bella, what's wrong?" Dr. Jennifer Henderson, walking beside the bed, noticed her reaction and asked with concern. "I know today's surgery was risky, but Dr. Perry is one of the top cardiac surgeons. You'll be fine."
Isabella didn't respond. Since she was eight, Dr. Jennifer Henderson, a pediatric resident at Harlem Hospital Center in New York, had been her primary physician. Dr. Henderson always maintained an optimistic outlook on Isabella's condition. "My sweetest little patient will grow up happy, go to college, and come back to bother me with her own children." She always said this to Isabella, followed by a long hug. Dr. Henderson always carried the sweet scent of coconut, a smell that always made Isabella feel safe.
"Thank you, Jennifer," Isabella whispered, meeting Dr. Henderson's kind brown eyes. "Thank you for everything you've done for me these past eight years."
As she lay on the cold operating table, moments before the anesthesiologist placed the mask over her face, she repeated nearly the same words to every doctor and nurse whose face she could recognize—no easy task when everyone wore tightly sealed surgical masks.
Then Isabella drifted into sleep.
She knew she would never wake up again.
*
Isabella's earliest memory was of the daycare center at New York University.
To her young self, it was a vibrant fairy-tale world. There was the brown-skinned sister who would pick her up and twirl her around every time she saw her, constantly praising her as "Bonita③"; the curly-haired aunt who made the best donuts in the world; the blonde auntie who affectionately called her "Little Mulan," patiently combing her hair with a golden brush stroke by stroke as she sat on a high stool, refusing to let her leave until she'd completed a hundred strokes; the white-bearded janitor grandpa who always greeted her with a smile and simple math questions, rewarding correct answers with tangy candies; Not to mention the little penguins, giraffes, polar bears, and lions who waited daily to play with her.
She always believed she held another mysterious identity—a princess from some ancient Chinese dynasty, and the daycare center was her tiny kingdom, wholly hers.
Not only because everyone there pampered her excessively, even forbidding her from joining her peers at the outdoor playground; whenever she furrowed her brow, someone would immediately come to ask if she was unwell. But also because the adults always spoke of her parents with a peculiar look, constantly recounting how strong her mother was and how fortunate she was to be there. Day after day, Isabella gradually wove a tragic tale in her heart—a story of a strong king and queen who had to flee far away to protect their child's identity—and she believed it wholeheartedly.
Yet, little by little, she began to grasp the truth.
She realized her special treatment wasn't due to her special status, but because of her frail body.
She understood that her mother was called strong not because she was protecting a princess, but because when her mother, Chen Wanqing, conceived her, she was still a third-year student at New York University.
She understood that people said she was incredibly fortunate because, according to regulations, the children of students were not permitted to be placed in the on-campus childcare center reserved for professors and administrators.
She understood she was just an ordinary Chinese girl with a heart that could stop beating at any moment.
She could never be the beautiful, wealthy princess in fairy tales who lived happily ever after with her prince.
But she possessed the most beautiful and joyful life her parents, who cherished her like the apple of their eye, could ever give her.
Until her dying breath, Isabella held this belief.
Therefore, when she opened her eyes again, Isabella was certain she had arrived in Heaven—that wondrous place her mother and friends had always described: a harmonious realm where God and Buddha coexisted, where Michael the Archangel resided alongside the Monkey King who once caused chaos in Heaven, where twelve angels guarded the gates of Paradise, and where Saint Peter would call out her name. Beyond those gates, she would meet a kind old grandmother. Drinking the lemonade she offered would erase all earthly memories, leaving her forever a carefree child in heaven—
But Heaven was a pair of transparent eyes, staring fixedly at her. Through those eyes, she could see the skull and long hair behind them. Through the skull and hair, she could see the snow-white silk canopy overhead. She could even see a mosquito resting on that snow-white silk canopy.
Isabella knew she ought to react with more excitement. Instead, scenes from Latin American soap operas flashed in her mind: she should sit up in an impossibly seductive pose, ideally allowing viewers a glimpse of her surgically enhanced, melon-sized breasts—a clip that would later be edited and shared on YouTube— —then stare with bewildered eyes that scream I had to sleep with the director just to get back on set, part her meticulously painted red lips, and tremulously utter, "Where am I? Who am I? Why can't I remember anything?" Then the dark-haired man who stormed into the hospital last episode would burst in again, wailing in agony: "Ah! Isabella, you really have forgotten me!"
But Isabella discovered her memory intact, her sanity intact, and those eyeballs still in place—looking just as terrified as she felt.
"You... hello?" Isabella ventured tentatively.
The eyes darted away in a flash. Isabella sat up, finding herself in a room lavishly decorated like the Palace of Versailles—she'd thought God's taste wouldn't mirror the French, she mused—and standing in the center of the room was a pearl-gray shadow—or rather, a spirit, more fitting— —possessing the exquisite, delicate features of a young maiden, with long, flowing hair cascading down. Those same eyes that had stared at her in terror moments before still fixed upon her with unrelenting dread.
"What did you just say?" the pearl-gray shadow suddenly spoke, its voice sounding like that of a young girl, startling Isabella. "I didn't say anything," she replied instinctively, then couldn't help asking, "Who are you? How did you—uh—I don't mean to be rude—is this how angels usually look?"
The pearl-gray shadow continued to stare at Isabella. After several seconds, it answered, "No. I'm dead."
"What a coincidence, I'm dead too," Isabella replied cheerfully, feeling considerably more at ease now that she knew the other wasn't an angel. "But I doubt the next dead soul to arrive here will appreciate you staring intently at their face—"
"You are not dead," the pearl-gray shadow cut her off sharply. "You are still alive—inside my body!"
"What—I'm not—how could—" Isabella was genuinely startled this time. She scrambled up from the large bed she'd been lying on, her bare feet landing on the soft, plush carpet as she rushed toward the white dressing table on the other side of the room. Finally, she saw her reflection in the mirror—the 16-year-old girl with long black hair, slanted eyes, an oval face—the sixteen-year-old girl everyone called "Little Mulan" was gone. Though the mirror honestly reflected a girl with long, dark brown hair and dark eyes, it was undeniably a delicate, beautiful Caucasian face, just like the pearl-gray shadow still standing in the center of the room.
"Oh, my God..." Isabella froze stiffly before the mirror, staring blankly at the unfamiliar girl inside, clad in a long, white lace antique nightgown. She could only repeat the phrase over and over, her lips moving in a silent chant, "Oh, my God..."
Then she turned to the pearl-gray shadow and asked the most classic question, "Who is this? Where am I? What on earth is going on?"