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.
