"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!"

The machines spun faster, their roar deafening.

At eleven-thirty, my eyelids grew heavy.

One of the machines let out a strange groan and jammed.

Out of habit, I cut the power and reached in for the dough.

The workshop plunged into darkness.

"Power's out!" someone shouted.

"Who's going to flip the breaker?"

"I got it!" That was Harry Brewer, working the machine next to mine.

I wanted to yell don't touch it—let me see where my hand is first, but my mouth opened and nothing came out.

Too exhausted. Too drained to even scream.

Click. The breaker snapped back on.

The instant power surged through, every machine in the workshop roared to life at once.

"AHHHHH—"

My vision blurred. Darkness crept in from the edges.

In my last moment of consciousness, I forced my eyes toward the clock on the wall.

Eleven-fifty.

Ten minutes until the New Year.

So this was the "year" my mother had given me.

Sure enough, she appeared in my dreams that night.

She was smiling. "This was supposed to be your tribulation at sixty-five. I pulled some strings and moved it up. Suffer while you're young, and you'll have an easy old age. Understand?"

"You..." My voice came out raw. "Why would you..."

"Why?" She leaned closer, her face unnervingly sharp in the dream. "Because I'm your mother. Only I know what's best for you. Serena, you need to learn gratitude."

"I hate you."

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the empty dreamscape. "Hate me, then. Even hatred is a blessing. When you're old and gray, you'll look back at this suffering and thank me."

She turned to leave.

"Wait!"

She stopped but didn't look back, dissolving into the mist.

I woke up.

I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling.

My right hand was gone. Forever.

All I could do was scrape by writing copy for strangers online—pennies for words.

Then autumn came, and the community organized a support group for people with disabilities. Drew Lawrence, the caseworker, practically dragged me there.

The meeting was held in the community center. About a dozen people showed up.

Some in wheelchairs. Some on crutches. Some with visual impairments. Some with hearing loss.

We sat in a circle and took turns speaking.

When it was my turn, I kept my head down. "Serena White. Twenty-nine. Right arm amputation. Three years."

The next person was a man. His voice was gentle. "Hi, everyone. I'm Ivor Chavez. Thirty-two. Left leg amputation. Also three years."

I looked up.

He sat in a wheelchair, wearing a simple white button-down. His hair was cropped short, his features clean and defined, a pair of thin-framed glasses resting on his nose.

He didn't play the victim when he spoke. Didn't complain. Just calmly described how he'd taught himself to walk again.

After the meeting, Drew wheeled me over to introduce us. "Ivor, this is Serena. She's an amazing writer."

That was how we met.

He never asked how I lost my arm. Never drowned me in pity.

He just said, when my left hand trembled from hours of relearning to write, "Take it slow. When I was teaching myself to code left-handed, I had three breakdowns a day."

He just handed me tissues when I knocked over a glass of water and sobbed, then quietly swept up the shards.

He just stayed on the phone with me until dawn when I woke at 3 a.m., shaking, my mother's face still burned into my mind.

Autumn passed. Winter returned.

One day in the last month of the lunar year, Ivor came over to help me clean for the New Year.

According to my mother's rules, the house had to be swept by the twenty-eighth. No brooms on the twenty-ninth—or you'd sweep away your fortune.