"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!"
