The rhythmic hum of the taxi was a muted backdrop to the kaleidoscope of Z City's streets outside. Cheng Yi, six years gone, watched the relentless rush of traffic, the towering new glass and steel structures eclipsing familiar landmarks. A street sign flashed past—a once-cluttered urban village, now a gleaming business district. A silent, stark reminder: everything had changed.

That night, sleep was a distant dream. The city lights, countless watchful eyes, seemed to interrogate her: Why did you come back? The anxiety, a leaden weight, grew with each passing hour, threatening to suffocate her. She curled into a ball, blanket clutched tight, hands pressed to the dull ache in her chest. Tears misted her eyes.

Then, the sharp ring of her phone alarm. A lifeline. She fumbled for it, a weak, sleep-deprived thought guiding her fingers. "I've arrived safely." Before she could set it down, a reply. "Up late? Don't forget your meds." The tide of sorrow receded, replaced by a flush of embarrassment. Burying her face in the pillow, the sudden pang of regret dissolved into deep exhaustion. At last, sleep came.