My mother died three years ago, on the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month. I thought the nightmare of living under her control had finally ended.

I never imagined she'd become an official in the Underworld's "Luck Bureau" and start skimming my "Spring Festival fortune."

From then on, every New Year became a disaster.

But she never expected we'd meet again—in the Underworld itself.

1.

My mother died three years ago, on the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month.

She was standing on a stool by the front door, hanging up Spring Festival couplets, when her hand slipped. Her whole body pitched backward.

The back of her skull cracked against the threshold. Blood seeped into the freshly pasted fu character—the one that meant "good fortune."

I didn't cry.

In fact, the moment she stopped breathing, a shameful wave of relief washed through me.

The woman who had controlled every aspect of my life for twenty-six years was finally gone. She couldn't manage me anymore.

Starting today, I could sleep whenever I wanted. Eat whatever I wanted. Be friends with whoever I wanted.

But I was naive.

On the seventh night after her death, my mother came back. She walked straight into my dream.

In her hands, she clutched a ledger that glowed with an eerie blue-green light.

"Serena White! Wake up!" Her voice was sharp, a command.

I stared at her in horror. "Mom... aren't you dead?"

"You think death means I can't manage you anymore?" She let out a cold laugh and flipped open the glowing ledger. "I'm a ninth-rank official in the Luck Bureau now. I oversee the New Year fortune of you younger generations!"

Her finger jabbed at the page. "Look at this yourself! Your 'Spring Festival Fortune Score' for next year is only six hundred thirty! Mia Carter upstairs has twelve hundred! That's double yours!"

"What score?"

"The amount of happiness you're allowed to enjoy during the Spring Festival!" Spittle flew from her lips. "The satisfaction of eating New Year's Eve dinner, the joy of receiving red envelopes, the pleasure of watching the Spring Festival Gala, how smoothly your visits to relatives go—it's all in here!"

She snapped the ledger shut. "Starting this year, I'm confiscating all of it! Wanting to enjoy life at your age—what'll you do when you're old? This is for your own good!"

"Mom—"

"Don't call me Mom! Useless girl!" Her shadow began to fade. "Break even one rule, and you'll regret it..."

I jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed. Cold sweat had soaked through my pajamas.

The room was pitch black. Only a sliver of streetlight crept through the gap in the curtains.

My hand trembled as I reached for the lamp switch. I pressed it once, twice, three times.

Nothing.

Power outage?

I slid out of bed barefoot and walked to the window.

I pulled the curtain aside and looked out. Across the street, every apartment blazed with light. Only my unit sat in total darkness.

It wasn't a blackout.

It was only my apartment.

I fumbled for my phone and turned on the flashlight.

The harsh white beam cut through the darkness, landing on the altar table in the living room.

My mother's memorial portrait stood there, still and silent within the circle of light. Her black-and-white eyes stared straight at me.

The downward curve of her lips looked especially unsettling in the shifting shadows.

"Coincidence," I muttered to myself. "It has to be a coincidence."

I forced myself to stay calm and went to the kitchen to find candles.

The flame flickered, casting trembling shadows on the walls.

I carried the candle into the kitchen and dug through the freezer until I found a bag of frozen dumplings.

When my mother was alive, she forbade me from eating frozen food. New Year's Eve dinner had to be handmade, she insisted. Frozen dumplings had no "family flavor."

I was going to cook them anyway.

I deliberately boiled them five minutes too long, until they turned to mush. My small act of rebellion.

The first dumpling went into my mouth. I chewed hard—and choked.

The wrapper lodged in my throat, stuck halfway down.

I coughed violently, my face turning red. I rushed to the faucet to gulp down water, only to find the tap was dry.

The water had been cut off too.

My phone buzzed at that exact moment. A message in the community group chat:

"Notice: Due to pipe maintenance, water will be shut off for two hours from 10 PM to midnight. We apologize for any inconvenience."

The message was sent at 9:55 PM.

The group chat exploded with complaints.

I stared at my phone, then at the soggy dumplings in my bowl.

The dream... was it real?

Was my mother actually controlling me from beyond the grave?

I walked to the altar and lit three sticks of incense.

"Mom," my voice trembled, "I was wrong. I'll do what you say. Please, just leave me alone."

The ash fell without a sound.

Outside, firecrackers began to pop—the festive chaos of New Year arriving.

But I knew my New Year, from now on, would be nothing but nightmares.

Early on New Year's Eve morning, my landlord Aunt Rebecca Lambert called.

"Serena, I'm not renting anymore. My son's getting married and needs the place. Move out by the seventh. Anyway, happy New Year."

My mother always said moving during the holiday meant a year of upheaval—nothing would go right.

But I hadn't planned to move at all.

I called back, hoping to negotiate.

It rang over a dozen times. No answer.

I tried again. Straight to voicemail.

I sat on the edge of my bed, looking around the tiny room I'd lived in for three years.

Now I had seven days to pack everything and find somewhere new.

I took a deep breath. Stay calm, Serena. You can do this.

That afternoon, facing the empty apartment, I started preparing my last New Year's Eve dinner in this place.

My mother's rules: the meal must have eight dishes and one soup, must include fish, meat, and chicken, must fill the entire table—even if only one person was eating.

She called it "keeping up appearances." If you kept up appearances, you'd have confidence for the year ahead.

I took the fish I'd bought yesterday out of the fridge.

My mother always said before killing a fish, you had to recite three times: "Little fish, don't blame me—you're meant to be a dish for humanity."

I refused. I just raised the knife and brought it down, scraping off scales, cutting out gills.

I spent four hours in the kitchen and made a full table of food.

For my first bite, I picked up a piece of fish belly—the tenderest part.

And a bone lodged in my throat.

My face turned red. No matter how hard I coughed, the bone wouldn't come out.

I went to the ER alone, endured an agonizing laryngoscopy, and finally had the bone removed.

Leaving the hospital, I walked for a long time until I reached a small park.

A thin layer of snow had settled on the bench. I sat down, gazing at the warm yellow lights in the apartment building across the way.

Behind those windows, families were probably gathered together, watching the New Year's Gala, snacking, staying up to welcome midnight.

And here I was, alone on a freezing bench. My throat ached. My legs ached. My heart ached.

My phone buzzed. A photo from my friend Audrey Fox.

They were at a karaoke bar, raising glasses, laughing.

The caption: "Serena, get over here!"

I couldn't go. Not because I didn't want to—because I wasn't allowed.

My mother wouldn't let me.

I understood now. Even in death, her rules remained. Her control remained.

The moment I tried to be happy, tried to celebrate like a normal person, something would happen.

A bone in my throat. Water shut off. Landlord forcing me out.

Mom, what do I have to do for you to leave me alone?

That night, she came to me again in my dreams.

This time she wasn't wearing the red puffer jacket. She wore an ash-gray official's robe, a small character for "Year" embroidered on the chest.

She sat in a high-backed wooden chair, the Luck Ledger still in her hands.

"A fish bone?" She sneered. "That's what you get for not saying 'May there be abundance year after year' before eating! How many times did I teach you the rules for New Year's Eve dinner? You offer to the ancestors first. You say something auspicious for every dish..."

"Mom!" I sobbed, cutting her off. Even in the dream, I found myself kneeling instinctively. "I spent New Year's alone. I made an entire table of dishes, just like you told me to. I did everything right, but I still—"

"Still what? Still feel sorry for yourself?" She regarded me coldly. "Serena, let me make this clear: every hardship you endure now is fortune saved for later. Squander all your luck while you're young, and what will you have when you're old? I'm doing this for your own good."

"I don't want this kind of 'good'!" I was nearly screaming. "I just want a normal holiday. Is that really so much to ask?"

Her fury erupted. She rose from the carved armchair, her official robes sweeping with a sharp rustle. "Look at Mia Carter—how many red envelopes did she get this year? How much of the New Year's Eve broadcast did she watch with her parents? And you? Do you even deserve to compare?"

Her figure began to fade. "This year is only the beginning. Each year, you'll learn to be more 'sensible.' When you're old and look back on all this suffering, you'll thank me."

"No... I don't want this..."

"You don't get a choice."

She vanished. The edges of the dream crumbled, and I plummeted into deeper darkness.

When I woke, it was still dark.

Tradition dictated I pay New Year's respects to my elders today.

But my only "elder" was lying in an urn, still pulling the strings of my life.

I dragged myself up and walked to the altar. The incense in the burner had long since turned to ash, leaving only a pale stub.

I lit three fresh sticks, placed them carefully, then knelt and kowtowed three times.

"Happy New Year, Mom."

"Please. Leave me a way to survive."

Last New Year had been the darkest point of my life.

The landlord had reclaimed my apartment again. I'd lost my job.

December 28th. Two days before the Spring Festival.

I scrolled aimlessly through job listings until an ad caught my eye:

"Fumanxiang Dumpling Plant urgently hiring temporary workers for Spring Festival. $75/day, room and board included, seven-day contract."

Seventy-five a day. Seven days meant over five hundred dollars.

Enough to survive two more months.

But there was a line of fine print: "Work period: December 29th through January 5th. Regular shift on New Year's Eve."

My mother's old rule echoed in my head: New Year's Eve must be spent at home, keeping vigil. No working outside.

She used to say that anyone who spent New Year's Eve running around would spend the whole next year running too—restless, never at peace.

I stared at that line for a long time.

Then I dialed the number.

I knew I was breaking her rules. But I needed money. I needed to live.

She was dead. Did her rules still matter?

The next day, I dragged my battered five-year-old suitcase to the factory on the city's outskirts.

I was assigned to Workshop Three, operating the dough-press machine.

The woman who showed me around was Melinda Dickerson, her accent thick and practical. "Listen, girl—this machine's the oldest one we've got. It jams easy. When it jams, you cut the power first, then pull the dough out by hand. Never—and I mean never—work on it while it's still running. Got it?"

"Got it."

That night at eight, I started my first shift.

The workshop was louder than during the day. Every other section had clocked out; only ours was still running, racing to meet the deadline.

Melinda explained that this batch was "Golden Ingot Dumplings" for a major supermarket chain. They had to ship before dawn on New Year's Day.

Several nights blurred together. By New Year's Eve, the atmosphere in the workshop had shifted.

The workers kept their hands moving, but their eyes betrayed a restless impatience.

At ten o'clock, Foreman Finch stormed in, his face dark as thunder.

"Pick up the pace! The supermarket's breathing down our necks—everything ships by midnight! Anyone who slows us down loses three days' pay!"