The dream was different now.
Chen Wei stood in the infinite gray hallway. The mop was in his hands. The floor stretched endlessly in every direction. But this time, when he turned around, his daughter was there.
Not far away. Not walking toward him. Just there. Standing a few feet behind him, watching.
She looked exactly as she had in the photograph—ten years old, gap-toothed smile, hair in two braids. The way she used to look when she ran at him full speed, trusting he would always catch her.
Dad.
He tried to speak. His mouth opened. This time, sound came out.
"I'm here."
I know. I've been waiting.
The mop in his hands grew heavy. Heavier than it had ever been. He looked down at it. The strands were tangled, knotted, wrong. He tried to let go. His fingers wouldn't open.
Dad, why won't you come home?
He looked up. She was older now. Eighteen. The face from the photograph he kept in his drawer, the one he never looked at but knew perfectly. She was wearing nurse's scrubs. Her eyes were tired.
"I'm trying," he said. "I'm trying to—"
The mop dragged him backward. Away from her. The floor moved beneath him like a conveyor belt, pulling him into the gray distance.
Dad—
He woke up gasping.
---
The apartment was dark. The same ceiling. The same water stain. The same silence.
Chen Wei lay on his mattress, heart pounding, tears cold on his face.
He reached for his phone without thinking. The screen lit up. 3:17 AM. No missed calls. No voicemails.
He stared at the blank screen for a long time.
Then he put the phone down, closed his eyes, and waited for morning.
---
At 8 PM, Chen Wei walked into the breakroom on Floor 47.
The room was full. Lao Xu at the table. Miao Miao by the counter, tea already warming. Shi Zong patting his pockets in the corner. Ji Hu watching with her knowing smile. The Accountant's numbers flickering by the vending machine. The Warrior leaning against the wall.
And Yan. Sitting at the table, folder in front of him, expression neutral.
Lao Xu looked up as Chen Wei entered. "Xiao Chen. You look terrible."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying. But that's fine too. Sit."
Chen Wei sat. Miao Miao appeared beside him, placed tea in front of him, disappeared. The cup was perfect temperature. It always was.
Lao Xu slid a folder across the table. "We have a cleanup. Level 2. Minor deity, domestic disturbance. Address is on the sheet."
Chen Wei opened the folder. Inside: an apartment building, a unit number, a time. And a single word: Hearth.
Again. Another hearth god.
"Same as before?"
Lao Xu shook his head. "Different. This one isn't grieving. This one is angry. Family moved out. Didn't say thank you. Didn't make offerings. Didn't even acknowledge two hundred years of service." He paused. "She's been throwing things."
Chen Wei looked at the folder. "What kind of things?"
"Pots. Pans. Small appliances. Nothing lethal yet. But if she escalates—" Lao Xu shrugged. "That's why you're going."
Chen Wei stood. Picked up his mop.
The Warrior pushed off from the wall.
They took the elevator in silence.
---
The apartment was on the third floor of a walk-up in the east end. Old building, thin walls, the smell of other people's cooking in the hallway. Chen Wei climbed the stairs, The Warrior behind him.
The door to 3B was ajar. Light flickered inside. The sound of something metal hitting something hard.
Chen Wei pushed the door open.
The apartment was small. A kitchenette to the left, a living room straight ahead, a hallway leading to what must have been a bedroom. And everywhere—on the counters, the floor, the table, the chairs—pots and pans and kitchen utensils scattered like casualties.
In the center of the kitchen, a woman stood with her back to them.
She was small. Old. Dressed in clothes that might have been fashionable a century ago. Her hands were shaking. Around her, pots floated in the air, spinning slowly, waiting to be thrown.
She turned.
Her face was ancient. Her eyes were fire.
"They left," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "Forty years I watched this family. Forty years I kept their stove lit and their water warm and their food from burning. I watched the grandmother learn to cook. I watched the mother teach the daughter. I watched the daughter grow up and move away and come back with children of her own."
A pot flew across the room. Chen Wei didn't flinch.
"And then they left. New apartment. New kitchen. New stove. Didn't say thank you. Didn't make an offering. Didn't even mention me." Her voice cracked. "Like I never existed."
Another pot. Closer this time.
The Warrior tensed. Chen Wei put a hand out. Stopped him.
Then Chen Wei did what he always did.
He sat down.
On the floor. Among the scattered pots and pans. Mop across his knees. Looking up at an angry god who had just been forgotten.
The woman stared at him.
"What are you doing?"
"Sitting."
"I can see that. Why?"
"Because I don't know what else to do."
The woman's fire flickered. Confusion bled through the anger.
"You're supposed to fight me. Or banish me. Or—or something. The Cleanup Committee—they always send fighters. They always make me stop."
Chen Wei shook his head. "I'm not a fighter. I'm a janitor."
"A janitor." She stared at him. "They sent a janitor."
"I clean up messes." He gestured at the scattered pots. "This looks like a mess to me."
The woman's anger flickered again. Something else surfaced. Something that might have been almost—almost—amusement.
"You're strange."
"I know."
A long silence. The pots lowered slightly. Not to the ground, but closer.
"I just wanted them to remember," she said quietly. "That's all. I didn't ask for worship. I didn't ask for offerings. I just wanted them to remember that I was there. That I mattered. That two hundred years of service meant something."
Chen Wei nodded. He understood remembering. He understood being forgotten.
"My daughter calls me," he said. "I never answer."
The woman looked at him. Really looked.
"Why not?"
"Because answering means admitting I'm here. And I'm not sure I want to be here."
Another silence. Longer this time.
The pots lowered further. One by one, they settled on the floor. Not thrown. Just... placed.
The woman sat down across from him. On the floor, among the wreckage.
"Maybe that's enough," she said. "For now."
They sat together in the quiet apartment. The Warrior stood at the door, watching.
After a long time, the woman spoke again.
"They're not coming back, are they?"
Chen Wei thought about it. "Probably not."
"Then what do I do?"
"I don't know. But whatever you do, you don't have to do it alone. There's a breakroom on Floor 47. The coffee is terrible. But the company's not bad."
The woman looked at him. Her eyes weren't fire anymore. Just tired.
"You'd let me come? Even after I threw things?"
"Miao Miao throws things sometimes. Shi Zong loses things constantly. You'll fit right in."
A small sound escaped her. Almost a laugh.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Chen Wei. But everyone calls me Xiao Chen."
"I'm Heping." She paused. "It means peace. Irony, right?"
Chen Wei smiled. It was small. Rusty. But real.
They sat together for another hour. Then Heping stood, looked around the apartment one last time, and walked out the door.
The Warrior watched her go. Then he looked at Chen Wei.
"You invited a god to the breakroom."
"Yes."
"That's not procedure."
"I don't know procedure."
The Warrior was quiet for a moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, his mouth twitched.
"Good."
---
Back on Floor 47, the breakroom was waiting.
Chen Wei walked in, sat down, and accepted the tea Miao Miao placed in front of him. Heping wasn't there yet—probably still finding her way—but she would come. He was sure of it.
Lao Xu looked at him. "You invited a god to the breakroom."
"Yes."
"That's not procedure."
"I know."
Lao Xu stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed. It was a real laugh—rusty, surprised, genuine.
"You're going to break every rule, aren't you?"
"I don't know the rules. So probably."
Lao Xu shook his head, still smiling. "The Accountant wants to see you. Something about probabilities."
Chen Wei looked at The Accountant. Its numbers were flickering faster than usual.
"Chen Wei." The Accountant's voice was precise, but underneath it, something that might have been excitement. "I have been running calculations on your performance. The results are... anomalous."
"Anomalous how?"
The numbers shifted. Patterns formed and dissolved.
"Your success rate with emotional cleanups is 94.7%. The average for new trainees is 31.2%. Your ability to de-escalate angry deities is 89.3%. The average is 22.1%. Your—" The Accountant paused. The numbers flickered wildly. "Your probability of existing at all in this role was 0.003%. And yet."
Chen Wei waited.
"I have learned that probabilities are not the only thing." The Accountant's form shifted. For just a moment, the numbers arranged themselves into something that might have been a shape. A person-shape. "This is the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me."
Chen Wei didn't know what to say. So he said what he always said.
"I don't know what that means."
"It means you are statistically impossible. It means the numbers cannot explain you. It means—" Another pause. "It means I am delighted."
The Accountant's numbers settled into a slower pattern. Almost peaceful.
Chen Wei looked at Lao Xu. Lao Xu shrugged.
"Don't ask. I stopped trying to understand The Accountant three thousand years ago."
The door opened. Heping walked in.
She looked around the breakroom—at Miao Miao by the counter, at Shi Zong patting his pockets, at Ji Hu watching with knowing eyes, at The Accountant's flickering numbers, at The Warrior against the wall, at Lao Xu at the table.
"Is this... is this where you all wait?"
Lao Xu nodded. "This is where we wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For whatever needs waiting for." He gestured to an empty chair. "Sit. Miao Miao will bring tea. You'll get used to it."
Heping sat. Miao Miao appeared beside her, placed tea in front of her, disappeared. Heping stared at the cup.
"It's perfect temperature," she said. "How did she—"
"Don't ask." Lao Xu smiled. "Just drink."
Heping drank. Something in her face softened.
Chen Wei watched her for a moment. Then he stood.
"I have to go."
Lao Xu looked at him. "It's 2 AM. Your shift doesn't end until 6."
"I know. I just—" He stopped. Didn't know how to explain.
Lao Xu's eyes softened. "Go. We'll be here."
Chen Wei walked to the elevator. The doors opened. He stepped inside.
On the ride down, he pulled out his phone.
No new messages. Just the one from last night. The one he'd listened to once.
He pressed play.
"Dad. It's me. I know you won't answer. You never do. But I just—I had a bad day. A patient died. First one. He was old, and he was ready, and it was peaceful, but I was there. I was holding his hand when he went. And I just—I wanted to hear someone who knew me before. Before all this. Before nursing school and death and growing up. You knew me when I was small. You knew me when I ran at you. I don't know why I'm telling you this. You're not going to answer. But I'm saying it anyway. Goodnight, Dad."
He listened to the whole thing again.
Then he put the phone away and walked home through empty streets.
---
The next morning, Chen Wei sat on the steps outside his building.
The same people. The same routines. The same ordinary morning.
His mop was beside him. The brass ring caught the light.
His phone was in his hand.
He stared at the screen for a long time. The call log. Her name. The green button.
His thumb hovered.
He thought about Heping. About being forgotten. About wanting someone to remember.
He thought about The Warrior's son. Running full speed. Trusting he would be caught.
He thought about the dream. His daughter behind him. The mop dragging him away.
He thought about Ji Hu's words. Every almost is a door. Doors can be opened later. If someone tries.
His thumb moved.
The phone rang.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
"You've reached Chen Xiaolian. I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll call you back."
A beep.
Chen Wei opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Xiaolian. It's me." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "It's Dad. I just—I listened to your message. The one about the patient. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I haven't been there. For eight years. I'm sorry."
He stopped. Didn't know what else to say.
"I don't know if you'll get this. I don't know if you'll call back. But I wanted you to know. I listened. I heard you. You're not—you're not alone. Even when I don't answer. You're not alone."
Another pause.
"Goodnight, Xiaolian. I mean—good morning. It's morning. I don't know why I said goodnight. I'm—I'm not good at this. I'm sorry."
He hung up.
Stared at the phone.
His hands were shaking.
He sat on the steps for a long time, watching the city wake up, feeling something he hadn't felt in eight years.
He didn't know what it was. Hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
But the mop beside him glowed faintly gold.
He didn't notice.
---
That night, when Chen Wei walked into the breakroom, everyone looked at him differently.
Not with pity. Not with expectation. Just... differently.
Lao Xu nodded once. Miao Miao placed tea in front of him without being summoned. Shi Zong stopped patting his pockets long enough to meet his eyes. Ji Hu's smile was softer than usual.
Even The Accountant's numbers seemed warmer.
Chen Wei sat down. Accepted the tea. Said nothing.
After a while, The Warrior spoke from the wall.
"You called."
It wasn't a question.
Chen Wei nodded.
"How many times did you listen to her message before you called?"
"Twice. The first night. Then again tonight. Before I called."
The Warrior was quiet for a moment. Then:
"That's courage."
Chen Wei shook his head. "It's not courage. It's—I don't know what it is. I just couldn't not do it anymore."
The Warrior nodded slowly. "That's what courage feels like."
They sat in silence. The breakroom hummed with its impossible frequency.
Then Chen Wei's phone buzzed.
Everyone looked at him.
He pulled it out. Looked at the screen.
Xiaolian calling...
His hand shook.
He looked at Lao Xu. Lao Xu said nothing. Just nodded.
Chen Wei stood. Walked to the corner of the breakroom. Pressed answer.
"Hello?"
Silence. Then, her voice. Small. Shaking.
"Dad?"
"Yeah. It's me."
A sound—half laugh, half sob.
"You called."
"I know."
"I've been waiting eight years."
"I know."
Another silence. Then:
"I don't know what to say. I thought about this so many times. What I would say if you ever answered. And now I don't know."
Chen Wei leaned against the wall. The mop in his other hand glowed gold.
"You don't have to say anything. I just—I wanted you to know I heard you. The message. About the patient. About—about before. I heard you."
"You listened?"
"I listened."
A long pause. When she spoke again, her voice was different. Lighter. Like something had been set down.
"Dad, I—I don't know if I'm ready to forgive you. For everything. For the years. For not being there. For—"
"I know."
"But I'm glad you called. I'm really glad you called."
Chen Wei closed his eyes. Felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been tight for eight years.
"Me too," he said. "I'm glad I called."
Another pause. Then, almost shyly:
"Do you want to... I don't know. Talk again? Sometime?"
"Yeah. I'd like that."
"Okay." A small laugh. "Okay. I'll—I'll call you. Not tonight. You probably need to—I don't know what you need. But I'll call."
"I'll answer."
The line went quiet. Then:
"Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, Xiaolian."
He hung up.
Stood in the corner of the breakroom, phone in one hand, mop in the other, tears running down his face.
When he turned around, everyone was pretending not to have noticed.
Miao Miao appeared beside him. Pressed a fresh cup of tea into his hands. Disappeared.
The tea was perfect temperature.
He sat down. Drank it. Said nothing.
No one asked.
---
At 6 AM, Chen Wei left the breakroom.
The elevator ride down was ordinary. The lobby was empty. The streets were empty. The city was waking up.
He walked home through morning light.
His phone was in his pocket. Warm. Present.
His mop leaned against his shoulder. The brass ring caught the sun.
He didn't know what would happen next. If she would call. If she would forgive him. If anything could be repaired after eight years of silence.
But for the first time in eight years, the question didn't feel impossible.
It just felt like a question.
And questions, he was learning, could be answered.
One call at a time.
---
End of Chapter 4