The sun blazes overhead. Jenny, like a Butoh dancer in meditative motion, turns the wheel with slow, deliberate grace. The car glides silently along the winding road. Inside, the AI-controlled A/C keeps her cool and comfortable. She no longer resists the heat. Her mind is vacant now.

Suddenly, she grips the wheel and swerves right. Her car merges onto a narrow road canopied by towering oaks. The dark green tunnel calms her instantly. A glance at the GPS screen confirms the road is empty. She slams the pedal. The car rockets forward at 120 mph. Green shadows blur past. Knives of pain stab through her skull, splitting her mind. But the searing agony twists into a dizzy, drunken euphoria—brief, intense, and fleeting. The windshield erupts into the bright blue sky as the car bursts from the tunnel. She eases off the pedal. The car slows. A roadside sign reads: Slow. Children at Play. Her heart pounds. Sweat beads on her brow. She smiles.

Now the car rolls gently over a brick-paved road. Ahead, soft hues layer the sky like pastels—revealing a town wrapped in thick pink clouds. Spring has arrived for the peach blossoms. Jenny rolls down the window, inhaling the floral perfume until her lungs ache. She shouts in admiration. The beauty overwhelms her. Tears stream down her face. Her lips tremble, and her hands shake on the wheel.

“Yes. This is the place. This is my home,” she murmurs.

A moss-covered stone bridge comes into view. A shiny red car approaches from the opposite direction, flashing its headlights twice—a gesture of courtesy. Jenny flashes hers in return. Beneath the bridge, the stream glistens silver and green. Swimmers drift gently with the current. On the banks, picnic blankets and baskets dot the lush grass. People sunbathe in swimsuits. Children scream with delight. Joggers pass each other along the river trail. Smoke from grills curls into the sky, blending with the scent of barbecue. Jenny’s smile widens. Her breath slows, lightens, almost stops.

She drives past a wooden sign: Welcome to the Heavenly Town of Peach Orchard. About as tall as a person and four feet wide, it features a carved peach blossom above a village encircled by a river, nestled on a mountain slope dotted with gabled homes. The road winds down into a street of rustic, barn-style storefronts. Neon signs glow: Moonlight Café, Mrs. Holy Deli, Sacred Bar, Wisdom Christian Bookstore. People sit on benches, drinking beer, chatting, reading. Sidewalk tables are packed with diners, immersed in conversation and towering plates of salad and burgers. No one looks up as her car passes.

A craving strikes—salty soy sauce on warm rice. Jenny’s eyes catch a neon sign: Golden Dragon Dim Sum. She pulls into a parking spot. The orange glow of the sign, flanked by two curving Chinese characters, beckons her. As she steps out, a chill in the early spring air makes her wrap her shawl tighter. She stares at the sunlight filtering through the peach blossoms, grounding herself. The thick timber walls of the restaurant bear the marks of hand-cutting and release the sweet, woody scent of camphor. She breathes deeply, letting the aroma rinse her anxiety away.

Passing through the doorframe, she taps a wind chime. It responds with musical, mysterious notes. A long central counter displays twenty steaming dim sum dishes. The smell of shrimp shumai and pork dumplings comforts her. The colors dazzle. Her stomach growls. She fills a takeout box—favorites for herself and dishes others like: sweet rice with pork, cha shao buns, egg rolls, chow mein. Then, worried it won’t be enough, she fills a second box. She’s the only customer, yet the air feels full—of food, of soft Chinese flute music.

 At the counter stands a woman in a satin Chinese dress, black braids resting on her chest, smiling warmly. “Ni Hao, Huan Ying Guang Lin (How are you? Welcome),” she greets softly.

Jenny returns the smile but hesitates. Conversation feels risky, awkward. She usually avoids it. “Here. These are what I want,” she says reluctantly, trying to sound cheerful.

“They’re delicious! I love these too. Fifty-five dollars,” the woman says in English.

“Xie xie,” Jenny replies in Chinese, surprising herself. She taps her card. Beep. Paid. But the encounter leaves her unsettled. Should I talk more next time? Or not? She carries her food—wrapped in a bag printed with calligraphy and golden dancing dragons—back to her car. The door opens automatically. She slips inside. Relief, and a flutter of excitement.

As the car drives itself, she opens a box and pops a shumai into her mouth. Sweet shrimp melts against her teeth. Chewy. Familiar. She’s loved shrimp since childhood—its curled shape, soft orange-and-white color, like candy, like the sea. Like home.

The road winds uphill, peach blossoms carpeting the path. Small wooden gabled houses appear. The sun, now setting, hits the windshield. A golden ball rimmed with white burns into her eyes. Panic spikes. Though the car drives smoothly, she feels the urge to take control. She blinks, struggling to see. Sweat dampens her palms. A sharp turn—and then shade. Peach trees again. Sweet fragrance returns. The car slows, passing a white picket fence, and pulls into a driveway. A gabled two-story house awaits, surrounded by peach trees. A porch swing sways gently under three glowing lamps.

She’s home.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Four children burst into view, identical in size and dressed in white sailor-collar shirts. One blond, the others Black, Asian, and brown-skinned. Quadruplets by design, not birth. She kneels to hug them. They giggle under her kisses.

“How was school today, sweeties?” she beams.

A man joins them. Mid-40s, gray hair, khaki pants, light blue polo—kind, professional, dependable. They embrace. The children tug at her skirt. The couple kisses again.

“Mommy brought Chinese food! Who’s hungry?”

“Yes! I want Kung Pao Chicken!”

“Yes! Chao fan!”

“Yes! Chow mein!”

“Yes! Sweet and sour pork!”

They gather around the takeout bag, resisting the urge to touch.

Jenny gazes at them, eyes moist. “How about you? What do you like?” she asks the man, brushing a child’s hair.

“I like everything you bring, honey,” he says, kissing her lips.

A wave of dizziness hits. Her head spins. She grips the floor to stay upright. What a wonderful night. She chokes back tears.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” he asks gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. His voice cuts like a blade.

She collapses into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. The children freeze, then cry in chorus.

What have I done to make angels cry? She pulls herself together, drops to the children’s level.

“No, no, don’t cry! Mommy’s not sad. I’m just... too happy. That’s all. Sometimes happiness makes us cry.”

She whispers in their ears: “Mommy loves you. I can’t live without you.”

The husband kneels and hugs them all. Smiles and tears mingle. Her heart feels squeezed until it melts—dripping, dripping.

“Ahh...” Her voice fades.

***

The bottle of red wine lies empty on the nightstand. Jenny sleeps, limbs sprawled like a fallen snow angel. The room is dark, except for a sliver of blue light from the blinds. Her watch blinks in the dark: “Meeting with supervisor and team at 10:00 AM. Be a killer! Can’t compromise!”

The alarm stops. She doesn’t stir.

She’ll return to Peach Orchard tomorrow. Maybe a mountain hike with the family, showing the river winding to the ocean. Or a holiday cottage, a campfire, Christmas carols, city lights. Or perhaps Paris. A romantic girl who understands her pain. So many lives to choose from.

The alarm beeps again: “Be a killer!” A bomb explodes on the screen.

Each day, she will wake to the boom. Thin air. Tightropes. She is a fighter until nightfall.

She had selected: “The young professional woman spends a happy night with her family—an intelligent husband and four multiethnic children.”

It was flawless.

To escape their sabotage...

To forget their attacks...

To forfeit the competition she can't win...

To avoid risking her job by arguing back...

She returns here—the world where players escape to live.

And this world guarantees an ending.

A happy one.

She gets to choose a new life. A brand-new start.