"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.

But that day was already the 29th of the twelfth lunar month.

"We can't sweep today." I looked at the broom in the corner, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

"Why not?"

"My mother always said... sweeping on the 29th sweeps away your fortune."

Ivor set down his cleaning rag and looked at me. "Serena," he said, "those rules, those superstitions—it's time to let them go. Those were your mother's words, not gospel truth. You can choose not to listen."

He picked up the broom and started sweeping.

Dust motes danced in the sunlight like flecks of gold.

I stood frozen beside him, heart pounding, like a child caught misbehaving, bracing for punishment.

But nothing happened.

Ivor pulled me into his arms and slipped a ring from his pocket.

"Serena," he said softly, "this Spring Festival... would you come home with me? My parents have been dying to meet you."

I smiled, my eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes."

But that night, I dreamed of my mother again.

"Getting married?" She didn't scold me.

"Yes." In the dream, I stood tall. For the first time, I didn't kneel.

"Good. Very good." She smiled. "Serena, you'll remember this Spring Festival. Remember—fortune must be rationed. Use it up too soon, and there's nothing left."

"I'm not afraid!" I shouted in the dream. "I have Ivor. I have a future—"

"A future?" Her laughter echoed and faded. "You don't have a future."

I woke up.

I sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat.

It was New Year's Eve. I never fell back asleep.

I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. Everything gleamed with festive warmth.

For the first time in three years, this place actually felt like a home ready for the holidays.

Ivor and I had agreed to meet at my place at 3:30. He'd pick me up, and we'd drive to his parents' together.

But four o'clock came and went. No Ivor.

I reached for my phone, wanting to call, but stopped—what if he was driving? I didn't want to distract him.

At 4:10, unease crept in.

At 4:20, my phone rang. I practically lunged for it.

"Serena..." It was Ivor's mother. Sobbing. "Ivor, he... he... on the way... his heart... the car hit the guardrail... by the time the ambulance arrived... he was already... already gone..."

Gone.

I stood there, numb. The phone slipped from my fingers.

Ivor was dead.

Dead on the road to marry me.

Dead on New Year's Eve.

Dead the moment I thought happiness was finally mine.

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat with my back against the wall, eyes fixed on the clock's hands as they crawled forward, second by second.

Ten minutes until midnight.

I threw a rope over the ceiling beam and tied a knot.

Mom, you win.

I give up.

I slipped my head through the noose and kicked the chair away.

This way, I'll never have to celebrate another New Year.