Will slumped in his seat as the train lurched forward from San Francisco's 4th and King Street station. His appetite had plummeted for days since Ma's funeral. He was heading back to his one-bedroom in Boston, a third-floor walk-up that smelled of old carpet and burnt coffee. Back to an electrician's life as an independent contractor with no union, benefits, or stability. He slid his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around Ma's gold wedding ring, the only artifact from her he took with him. The ring pressed cool against his palm. Ma had never taken it off, not even when scrubbing the dishes or rolling out the dumpling dough with cracked hands.
       The rain spattered against the glass panes. The world outside blurred into a hazy, indistinct watercolour. He watched the city disappear, the same way it had eight years ago on his first train east, when he left Ma behind.
       He slipped out an old picture of Ma from his wallet. The photo, slightly creased at one corner, captured her piggybacking a gap-toothed little boy. Behind them, the photo revealed the facade of a Chinese restaurant. As a young boy, he had taken pride in helping Ma mount the name board, Wei Yong Restaurant, on the storefront. Although the younger version of Will weighed down her slim frame, Ma's unwavering smile hid how much she had carried alone.
       He deserved that hollow feeling in his gut.
       The cabin lights flickered, and the brakes screeched. The train shuddered to a halt. He shoved the photo back into his wallet.
       "Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some technical issues. We ask that you remain seated, and we thank you for your cooperation."
       The lights blinked again, followed by a bright flash from another cabin. The hum of the train engine ceased, and the cabin plunged into darkness.
       Nervous murmurs buzzed through the cabin. He dug his nails into his hands.
       Flashes of memories brought Will back twenty years ago. An electrical short-circuiting problem had erupted into an unforgiving fire, consuming the kitchen and half the restaurant. Nine-year-old Will was doing his homework in the back corner. He had sat frozen in place even when the flames licked at his feet. Ma had abandoned everything, flung him over her shoulder, and carried him out.
       A weight lodged beneath his ribs. He shoved the memory away.
       The announcer's shrill voice filled the cabin once more. "Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm and stay seated. We will resume our journey as soon as we can. Thank you for your patience."
       The emergency lights dotted the hallway, enough to spot the exit. He closed his eyes, hoping to nap through this unexpected delay. The temperature dropped, and goosebumps crawled over his skin. He scavenged for an extra sweater in his bag stored in the upper head compartment.
       "Help meeee. . ." A faint whisper drifted along the walls.
       Will stood up and scanned the cabin. Most people either fidgeted in their seats or distracted themselves with their phones. A few cast glances his way. He sank back into the seat, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and put on headphones.
       "Help meee. . ."
       The whisper pierced through his headphones and jolted him awake. Images of Ma falling under an assailant's blade flickered behind his eyes. His mouth ran dry.
       Everyone remained seated in the dim cabin. No one reacted to the whisper. He headed into the bathroom to freshen up. He crammed into the train's tiny lavatory space and shut the door behind him. In the dimly lit mirror, shadows clung beneath his eyes from the many sleepless nights. The tap squeaked when he turned it. He splashed some water on his face and rubbed his eyes.
       A woman's silhouette emerged behind him.
       Will whipped around to reprimand the woman for invading his privacy. Her blank gaze stopped him short. The hair on his neck pricked. She wore an old-fashioned qipao, as if from the Qing dynasty, yet it was kept crisp and new. Her hair, perfectly curled and permed, hugged her scalp. Her face, powdered to perfection, resembled the stillness of a porcelain doll.
       His lips parted, his breath faltering. Her uncanny beauty hypnotized him.
       "Help me," she said. "Have you seen him?" She spoke in Cantonese. Her eyes echoed quiet longing.
       "I-I don't know who you're talking about. Who are you?"
       "We share same blood, same family. Help me find him."
       "Find who?"
       "Your ah Ma tells me to find you, Weiwen."
       Will shivered when his Chinese name escaped her lips. Only Ma had used that name in America.
       "I don't understand."
       "Please. Let me show you. . ."
       The woman grabbed Will's shirt, spun him around and yanked him through the mirror.
       A heat wave blasted through his shirt. He was no longer on the train. The sun blazed overhead, baking his skin. A pounding headache bloomed at his temples, and he stumbled forward trying to regain his bearings. A half-constructed railroad stretched across the cracked sandstones. The rails glinted like a blade under the punishing light. Clusters of encampments lined the tracks--their thin tent fabric flapped about in the arid wind. Into the distance, rugged mountains and uneven terrain marked the horizon.
       "Where am I?" Will said. He clutched his head.
       Swarms of Chinese workers shuffled past him, pulling carts transporting construction materials. Along the tracks, the crunch of gravel underfoot and the clang of hammers striking spikes resonated with an ominous rhythm.
       "On the railroad. Your ancestors have worked here, long time, long hours. Very hard."
        Will staggered back. The ghostly woman reappeared, dressed the same as before.
       "This is not real." Will rubbed his neck. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He couldn't have gone back in time. He must have fallen asleep on the train. Maybe the woman was someone he'd seen at Ma's funeral--a distant relative his subconscious had dragged to the surface.
       "He left China. Come work here in 1861. Left me behind." Her face twisted with pain and sorrow. "Disappeared. I come find him."
       "Huh? Who?" Will forced in a breath.
       The woman's hands curled into a fist. She locked her flaring red eyes onto Will.
       He was too aware of how hot his skin felt. Dreams didn't carry this kind of weight.
       "Help me find him. . . or you will never return home." She dissolved in the air before he could argue.
       "Hey!" A large white man with a tight jaw and a harsh squint shouted at him. His face flushed in the blistering heat. "Who said you could take a break? Get back to work. And where did you get those clothes? I swear if you'd stolen those, I'll put you on a boat back to China."
       Will looked down at himself. His buttoned-up T-shirt and denim jeans--clean, intact. His neatness was out of place. Around him, the workers' loose-fitting trousers, sun-bleached cotton shirts, and leather boots caked in grime and dust. Many wore wide-brimmed hats or weathered bandanas.
       The red-faced man jammed a gun against Will's temple.
       "Do you hear me?" he barked and spat on Will. Will nodded, blinking rapidly. Sweat stung his eyes as he swiped at his brow and stammered. The large man pushed a shovel into Will's hands. Head bowed, Will forced the blade into the hardened ground, lifting clumps of rock and soil. When the supervisor turned away, he pressed his fingers on his temples as if to calm the pounding in his head.
       Within an hour of shoveling rocks, blisters bloomed across Will's hands, his throat was parched, and his lips cracked. If this place was a dream, why did it hurt so much? He couldn't have any water until the designated mealtime. Another worker was kind enough to lend Will some clothes better suited for manual labor, and that blended in with the rest.
       Will pinched his sunburnt skin, half-wondering if he was delirious, but nothing happened. Was this karma for leaving Ma behind? He could have stayed, could've helped her at the restaurant. Instead, he chose to leave. He reached into his pocket for Ma's ring and rolled the cool metal against his calluses.
       The memory of his Ma's coffin sinking into the earth, the finality of it still ached in his bones. He wanted to collapse, to curl into a ball and disappear. Another white man's shout snapped him back to the present. So, he swallowed the grief, burying it deep.

       The sun dipped low on the horizon, smearing the sky in shades of amber and flame. Will trailed the other men from the tracks. His shoulders and legs ached, and his palms stung. Their makeshift kitchen was nothing more than a scar in the dirt, barely covered by a sagging tarp strung between warped wooden poles. Iron woks balanced over crude stone fire pits, their surfaces scorched black with grease and soot. Rice sacks piled nearby, dust worked into their seams. When living with Ma, he would've complained if the ingredients weren't fresh. Here, more than a dozen men shared one cook, who walked miles to bring back noodles, dried vegetables, and fruit from nearby districts. They fell into line without speaking, passing bowls, tending fires, moving with the dull coordination.
       "Where you from?" The worker who lent Will the clothes, Lee, asked in Cantonese. Lee passed Will a bowl of rice topped with black mushrooms, seaweed, and leafy greens. "Your accent's different from ours."
       Will usually hated that question--it often meant What kind of Asian are you? Will accepted the bowl politely and refrained from commenting on the plain food, especially compared to the Irish workers' meals of beef and potatoes. They joined a small group of workers huddled together on thin blankets on the dirt.
       "I'm from Taishan," Will lied, naming a small city in Guangdong where his distant cousin lived, who spoke a different dialect. He hadn't spoken that much Cantonese since he had started working in Boston, so the words still tasted foreign in his mouth. He gulped down a cup of tea to avoid saying more.
       "Aie. I miss home already, lah. I worry about my aging parents becoming old and weak. But no money to go home," Lee said. He picked at the rice in his bowl, his eyes unfocused.
       "Ah Ma just passed away," Will said. The words hung in the space between them. He hadn't said it out loud--not since the funeral, not even to himself. His grip on the chopsticks tightened. His stomach coiled, as it often had recently when he ate. The dry and stale rice filled him, but it was nothing like the soft grains Ma used to steam just right. She used to tell him not to skip meals. Eat, Will. You can't work on an empty stomach. She wasn't here to remind him anymore.
       The others swallowed the food hungrily as if they hadn't eaten for days.
       "Aiya, I'm so sorry," another worker, Wong, said. His hand, bruised purple and swollen, trembled when he lifted his chopsticks. "It's the price we pay seeking fortune in a strange land."
       Will's chest tightened. He hadn't been there for Ma. And what was it all for? If he hadn't moved away, maybe it would've been different. She wouldn't have been all alone, slaving away in the restaurant when it happened. In the end, he didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.
       "Think about it," another man, Ah Cui, said. He rose slowly, one hand pressing against the ache in his lower back. "With several hundred dollars in our pockets, we'll enjoy a glorious homecoming when we lift our families from poverty. Imagine the land I can buy. I may be able to marry a noble's lady." He winked.
       "Keep dreaming," Lee said. "At this rate, we'll be sent home in coffins. Didn't you hear? Another explosion down in Sierra Nevada. A hundred men gone, just like that." Lee stabbed at a piece of chicken.
       Around the circle, the men fell silent. Some shook their heads, others bowed low. Will hunched forward.
       Will wanted to go home, too, back to his timeline. Yet home in America had never felt permanent for him. He hadn't found a place where he truly fit in. He thought of Ma's home in a cramped apartment above the restaurant, where the scent of soy clung to the curtains. The uneven hum of the old fridge woke Ma in the early morning. As a child, he used to hear her quiet footsteps and the soft scrape of her chair on the tiled floor as she calculated the month's expenses. He couldn't help her much back then. That life had faded into a distant memory.
       "Those Americans sit in their cushioned boxcars, while we drop like flies in the blazing heat," Wong said. He kicked at a stray rock, sending it skittering toward Will.
       "We should fight back," Will said suddenly. He needed to do something other than toil endlessly on the railroads. The men turned to look at Will. Their sunburned faces, sunken eyes and skeletal frames were hollowed by months, if not years, of labor. They looked at each other, confused. Their silence pressed in, heavier than the heat. Then they erupted into bitter laughter. Will's face reddened, but he continued. "I'm serious, there are more of us than them."
       "Yeah, right," Lee said. "They'll beat us, shoot us, starve us, replace us. Plenty more Chinese where we come from. They have us under their thumbs. Don't talk such nonsense."
        Will was about to protest, but Ah Cui changed the subject. "Did you hear? The camp west of us, haunted by a ghost."
       Will stiffened. He didn't believe in such superstitions, but ever since Ma's death, he couldn't help wondering if her spirit lingered. And then there was that strange woman on the train.
       "Aiyoo. Too much sun and too many dead, you start seeing things," Lee said. He swallowed his last piece of vegetable.
       "It's true. Men disappeared into the night after hearing a woman's voice," Wong said.
       "What did she look like?" Will's voice cracked a little. His heart quickened.
       "Beautiful. Pale skin. Wearing a qipao." Wong said, his voice wistful, as if thinking of the women back home.
       "Aiya, you've been listening to too many ghost stories lah," Lee insisted.
       Will said nothing. Cold sweat dotted his brow. What if that ghost came for him?
       The men reminisced about their families back home and broke into an old folk song--their voices weaved together in the dusk. Warmth stirred in Will's chest. The banter and chorus reminded him of the nights Ma would gather her friends for mahjong. Will didn't know the lyrics, but for a fleeting moment, he felt less alone sitting with them.

       At night, Will lay down on the thin mat beside the other men, packed side by side like rotting spring rolls. They were crammed under the bare canvas tents held together with flimsy cloth stretched over poles. The air inside was thick with sweat and decay. There were no bathrooms or showers. The rough surface beneath dug into his spine.
       Back in Boston, Will had chased clients who never called back, spent days digging trenches for underground wiring, crawled through damp basements, and ran lines from garages to houses that weren't his. Sometimes he drove for hours for work that barely lasted an afternoon. He used to complain. Now, the memory of a clean bed and a hot meal felt like a privilege. He had convinced himself the money was worth it, that independence mattered more than protection--that he didn't need a union, didn't need anyone. It sounded hollow now.
       He subconsciously reached for his phone. Its battery was 35%. Of course, there was no signal. Useless. He groaned and shoved the phone back in his pocket. He fiddled with Ma's ring absentmindedly. Maybe if he'd stayed in San Francisco just a few days longer to tie up some loose ends with Ma's relatives, he wouldn't have been on that haunted train.
       Will could still hear the rhythmic tap of her cleaver on the cutting board and the hiss of oil meeting garlic at his Ma's restaurant. He had spent his teenage years bending over sizzling woks and sinks. His hands turned red from scrubbing, and his clothes were steeped in the scent of soy and scallions. He used to hate it, and no amount of washing could scrub off the kitchen's smell from his clothes. Now, he knew he'd never smell it again.
       He had watched Ma write down each order onto her frayed white notepad and tuck it into the pocket of her yellowed, grease-stained apron. Her hands, quick and graceful, balanced three plates at once as she wove through the circular tables draped with white linen and plastic covering. She smiled at regulars and switched effortlessly between Mandarin, Cantonese and English. The restaurant buzzed each night with animated chatter and clatter of cutlery. She held it all together. He didn't understand Ma's optimism at that time. He had often heard her reflect on how much freedom she enjoyed in the United States compared to the previous generations. Now, among the men who slept on the bare ground, he understood. Freedom to her didn't mean choice or even comfort; it meant survival on a foreign land, the right to work without fear of the law and to hold your loved ones without an ocean tearing them apart.
       Will didn't want to take over the restaurant, not like Ma had hoped. One contract led to another, months folded into years, and calls left unanswered. He returned less often. Every month, he had sent money home like the other railroad men here. He thought he was following the American Dream. But he couldn't shake the image of his Ma at the door, watching him leave with pained eyes. Did Ma wipe away the tears when he turned the corner? The last time he visited her, the lines on her face had deepened, her hair threaded with gray. Her fragile form made his degree, his contract, and his fortunes taste like ash.

       A gust of wind surged through the camp, kicking up sand and snuffing out the last of the candlelight. Around him, the men shifted and shushed each other to sleep.
       Then, the soft, haunting voice came again.
       "Help me. . ."
       Will went rigid. He scanned the tent. No one else stirred.
       He waited until the men's breathing deepened into a slow rhythm before he slipped out. The starless night swallowed the miles of empty road.
       Laughter drifted from a row of rusted boxcars down the path. On the gravel, a sliver of light leaked through a cracked door. Will crept closer, and the gravel crunched softly beneath his feet. He stepped onto the shallow wooden stairs, careful to keep them from creaking. He pressed his ear against the metal.
       "Those Crocker's pets reek so bad." One supervisor said. Will cringed. That was the man who had held a gun against his temple. "I bet they haven't bathed since they left whatever godforsaken rice field they crawled out of."
        "Get this. Earlier this morning, we tied the cook's shirt in knots. Oh gosh, what's his name, Ah Lee? Took him half an hour to undo it." A chorus of laughter followed.
        A chair scraped. Glass clinked.
       "Come here. What an exotic treat you are." The supervisor's speech was slurred from intoxication.
       Will peered through the crack. A man grabbed the arm of a young Chinese woman to pull her close.
       Will's breath caught in his throat. It's her. The woman from the train. His grip tightened on the handrail until his knuckles turned white.
       "What's your name, sweetheart?"
        "An Yi," she said. Her eyes remained downcast, shoulders stood still.
       Another man raised his glass.
        "Ah, I'm gonna buy me a mansion down in New York, right on Park Avenue-- next to Crocker himself. Just so I can say, 'Howdy neighbor!'"
        "It's the dream, ain't it, boys. Cheers!" They drank, laughed and bragged.
       Will curled his hand into a tight fist against the door. Their dreams were built on the blood and sweat of stolen labor. How dare they have the audacity to dream?
       Her voice came behind him. "Thoughts?"
       Will jumped, almost slipping off the staircase. He whirled around. An Yi's ghost hovered there. Her form wavered like heat off the pavement.
        "Please," Will pleaded. "Let me go home. I don't belong here." Adrenaline pumped through him. He wasn't sure where he belonged anymore.
        "None of us belong here. Still, we work, we toil until our bones turn to dust."
        "What do you want from me?" Will asked.
        "Help me find him. . ."
        "Who? There are hundreds of men out there. People are dying every day. How can I find one man?"
        An Yi's expression darkened.
        "Try harder. . . Come. . .We're going to Utah."
        An Yi reached for Will. Her translucent fingers wrapped around his shirt, and she yanked him through the boxcar window. The world twisted. His stomach flipped.
       He now stood in a narrow, grimy back alley of Chinatown. The inky black night cloaked the empty streets. A foul odor of rotting food and damp cardboard assaulted him. Garbage bags sagged like a bloated corpse piled in the corner. The moon, pale and distant, cast a soft glow on the streets. Faded Chinese lettering on signs sat above darkened windows. A few red lanterns swayed in the breeze, much like Ma's restaurant.
       Will steadied himself against the wall. The heat and dust from the railroads still clung to him, while the chill of the alley's chill crept over his skin. A faint light emanated from a small, barred window. He stepped closer and peered inside. Inside a bare concrete room, sat An Yi. Her living self was locked up with one yellowing cot, a small, chipped table and a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. A few splintered boards barely concealed the cracks beneath the walls. A cup of tea and boiled rice sat untouched in the corner, next to a dimly lit candle. She sat hunched, head buried in her hands, and her shoulders shook in silent sobs. Her slightly damp hair hung loose and limp around her.
       As if sensing him, she lifted her face. Her eyes were raw and swollen. She wiped them with the soiled sleeves of her plain white dress. She tore off a strip from the bedsheet with trembling hands. She bit into the flesh on her fingertip and drew blood. She wrote something on the cloth. Will couldn't read the words from there. The candlelight burned low, only half an inch left when she finished. She folded the cloth and slipped it outside the door. Then she paused and stared at nothing at all.
       Will opened his mouth, but it was too late. An Yi reached for the candle. The flame ignited the edge of her sleeve. She didn't flinch.
       "No! Stop!" Will slammed his fists against the door and jiggled the lock frantically. It didn't budge.
       The candle slipped from her fingers. It struck the floor, and fire bloomed. It curled up her dress and devoured her in a rush of flame. She didn't scream. She resigned, and her charred body collapsed in a blazing heap.
       "Please! Somebody help! Fire!" Will's shouts tore through the night but vanished into the wind. No one came.
       When the flames finally died, only a pile of ashes remained where she had been. He sank to his knees. His fist pounded at the dirt until blood streaked his knuckles.
       The image crashed over him again--Ma's body lying still in the hospital bed, her lips drained of color, her chest wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. He only stood there, useless, watching life drain from her listless body. He hadn't been able to stop it, just like the fire in the restaurant.
       Why did Ma have to take all the blows herself? He could still hear Ma's sobs the night a stroke claimed his father. Merely thirty-five, and suddenly alone. She didn't mourn for long, at least not out loud. She tightened her apron and opened the restaurant the next morning. She carried on the family business along with raising her son and buried her grief beneath each shift.
       Then came a break-in. Glass shattered at midnight. A month's worth of expenses gone from the cash register. She increased her hours to recover it, only for the landlord to hike the rent.
       Even when Will's college tuition was raised for the third year in a row, she smiled, patted his hand and said, "It'll be alright."
       His blood boiled, rising hot and fast like roaring flames that had consumed An Yi. He screamed into the sky, knowing no one would hear him. No one ever had.
       Bending down, he grabbed the scrap of cloth left at the doorway.
       Heart pounding, hands slick with sweat, he unfolded it. It revealed a ballad. Some of the characters were smeared, blurred by blood. He read the half-legible strokes.
       Dear husband Qi Liang,
       Our mutual love stands strong.
       Suddenly, you had departed for America,
       Leaving your wife alone in an empty house, in an empty bed.
       The peonies you gave wilted in the vase.
       I regret the thousand miles that separate us.
       You sought to fill our pockets with money from the Gold Mountain,
       So we can escape poverty and pain.
       But ten years came and went,
       And my sorrow runs as deep as the Yangtze.
       The gold you sent won't wipe my tears.
       The last letter about your ailing health worried me.
       I have stowed away to America to search for you.
       I should have known, a lone woman crossing oceans invites trouble
       Men have left broken, bruised, and tainted.
       My body is no longer mine.
       Many times, I tried to take my own life.
       But I held on to the hope of one last glimpse of you before my last breath.
       Sold off to a brothel. Nursed back to health,
       And dolled up again to be used again.
       I ran, but they caught me.
       Months blurred into years. Now I am of no more use.
       I'm afraid death's breath is at my nape.
       You must think me unclean, withered and unworthy of your name.
       But you remain etched in my thoughts,
       Even in death, I will keep searching for you,
       And may we reunite in the afterlife.
        Will stared at the note. The smeared characters bled like wounds across the cloth. His throat tightened after reading every line. He could no longer distinguish his grief from An Yi's.
       He had thought the large paychecks would protect Ma in the long run. But deep down, he knew--he'd left because he couldn't stand the sight of her slaving away over the stove, coughing into her apron. He'd left because it was easier. All these years, he thought Ma would be proud of him for his career, but he understood now that all she wanted was for him to come home.
       He grasped the cloth in one hand and Ma's ring in the other. He understood what An Yi wanted him to do.

       Last night's memory burned in his skull. He didn't want to be useless anymore.
       Will joined the nearest work crew, hammered spikes and hauled stones from dawn to dusk. His clothes clung to his sweat-slick back. He asked the other workers about Qi Liang. Some men recognized the name, but none could say his whereabouts. Men were uprooted without warning, sent wherever the need was most urgent. Uneasy whispers crept through the camps of the ghost woman wandering the tracks and of American supervisors' disappearances. He kept his head down and offered to cook for the other workers, earning their trust. Then, he gathered quiet support for increased pay and reduced work hours, especially in the tunnels. Even if they were to die here, at least they would die fighting.
       At night, he proceeded with caution. He returned to An Yi's run-down slum, a crumbling structure wedged between rows of identical buildings. He came to gather her remains to give her a proper burial.
       The door was unlocked, hanging loose and crooked in its frame. The air was stale with smoke and rot. His blood turned cold.
       He caught a glimpse of An Yi's silhouette. His heart jumped to his throat. On the cracked mirror reflection, her once beautiful features were replaced by scorched flesh, skin peeling in uneven sheets, revealing the charred muscles beneath. An Yi moved with unusual calmness and sat before the mirror like a woman beginning her morning routine. From her sleeve, she withdrew a delicate brush and palette of makeup. Stroke by stroke, she brushed over the burns like a practiced artist and dabbed her broken face with a sponge. When she finished, she looked as flawless as before.
       She moved to the window and stared out into the night, serene, waiting. When the moon climbed high and the wind stirred the paper lanterns outside, she rose and drifted toward the railroad camps to begin her search again.
       Will witnessed the same ritual every night. On the third night, he followed her.
       An Yi glided along the tracks just as the men described her. Beautiful. Flawless, smooth, pale skin. The moonlight reflected the peony prints on her qipao. Her body swayed from side to side as if drunk. Her lantern bobbed along with each step. A sorrowful tune spilled from her lips.
       "Hey, lady! You lost?" A lean American man straggled over. His sleeves were rolled up, and a cigarette jutted from his mouth. He took a long drag. Smoke swirled in the air.
       Will stayed hidden in the shadows.
       She paused mid-note and turned to face him in slow motion. The lantern cast an eerie glow over her empty eyes. Her red lips curved upwards into a smile. The man's jaw slackened, and he dropped his cigarette. He stamped it out while his eyes remained fixed on An Yi.
       "Come here," she said. Her silky voice dripped like sweet venom.
       He obeyed and walked toward her like a moth to a flame. His eyes glazed over.
       "Can you help me find someone?"
       "Of course, sweetheart. A pretty little thing like you." His fingers moved to unbuckle his belt.
       "Have you seen my Qi Liang?" Her tone was sweet and innocent.
       He blinked. The name rolled over his head.
       "Ki. . . what?" His brow furrowed, tasting something foreign on his tongue, "Bah, forget some chink like him, why don't you come back with me?"
       An Yi struck out her arm. In a single fluid motion, her hand plunged through his chest. A crunch of the bone and tearing of flesh resonated along the rails. She withdrew her bloodied hand, clutching his beating heart. Will clamped his hand on his mouth, unable to look away.
       The man's face slackened, and he crumpled with a dull thud.
       "I guess that's a no. . ." She raised the heart to her mouth and swallowed it whole.
       Will gagged.
       An Yi licked her fingers clean, unfazed and continued down the tracks as if nothing had happened. Will's stomach twisted.
       Then it hit him why An Yi looked familiar. Ma had shown him an old family photo when he was a child. His great-uncle had been among the earliest in their family to come to Gold Mountain. His wife had been An Yi all along.
       Will was certain An Yi meant for him to see this. He fled back to the tents.

       The following night, Will slipped out and weaved through the hushed alleys of Chinatown. One of the workers had suggested he pay a visit to the pawnshop. It was a worn building tucked into a corner, its faded sign hung askew and creaked in the wind. He opened the door, and a bell jingled. He caught a waft of aged wood, dust and the pungent bite of cigarette smoke. Old clothes, tarnished trinkets, chipped porcelain and mismatched artifacts littered the room. Each item carried a memory of the living and the dead.
       "We're closed," came a voice in Cantonese, dry and dismissive. The bald pawnbroker didn't bother looking up. He sat hunched beneath a dimly lit desk lamp, a Chinese text open in front of him. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, its smoke curling close to the paper.
       Will didn't move to leave. After a moment, the man peered over his glasses, perched at the edge of his nose. The weathered lines on his forehead deepened when he gave him a proper glance.
       "Sorry to disturb," Will said. "I came here for information." The pawnbroker sighed, exhaling a slow plume of smoke and gestured for him to continue.
       "I'm looking for someone. A man named Qi Liang. Do you know him?"
       The pawnbroker scratched his head, considering.
       "Information always has a price."
       Will scrounged through his pockets. His credit cards and phone were useless here. He placed a nearly empty leather wallet with his Ma's photo peeking out from the top and his silver watch on the counter. The pawnbroker scrutinized them, unimpressed.
       "You don't belong to this place," he said, eyes narrowing behind his lenses. "Not really." Will tensed but stayed silent. "This watch is not pure metal. But it'll do." He bent over to pick up a yellowed ledger and plopped it on the desk, scattering a puff of dust in the air. He adjusted his glasses and flipped through the pages.
       A golden locket hung from a hook on the wall and caught the moonlight from the open window. It was the only piece of jewelry he spotted. He stepped closer. Inside the locket lay a faded painting of a young woman.
       "Where did this come from?" Will said. The pawnbroker's eyes followed his gaze, then took the locket off the hook, studying it under the lamp.
       "It's one of the items brought over from the Nevada explosion. Just scraps left behind. I will sell what I can."
       "Do you know who it belonged to?"
       "Hmm. Hard to say. Things get lost easily around here. Men die or go missing. Who's to know?"
       "Can I have it?"
       "If you can pay for it," he said, arching a brow. His gaze swept over Will's poor clothes.
       Will hesitated. His hand drifted to his pocket and closed around Ma's gold wedding ring. The ring she had held close to her heart even after his father's passing. It was all he had left of her. Had she forgiven him for leaving her behind?
       The alternative was to walk away with nothing. And An Yi would wander the tracks, searching for someone who'd never come. He couldn't turn his back on her, not when he might still be able to do something right. Will swallowed hard. Ma would have wanted him to do this. She always helped others, even when no one helped her.
       Will placed the ring on the counter. The pawnbroker's eyes lit up.
       "Now, this is worth something." He took it gently and examined it under the light. "I'll need time," he said, tucking the ring away. "Come back tomorrow."

       Will swung open the pawnshop door. The pawnbroker acknowledged his presence this time. After chatting for a bit, he confirmed Will's suspicions.
       "What is your name?" the pawnbroker asked as Will turned to leave.
       "Weiwen," Will hadn't used the name in a long time. It felt right to use the name Ma had given him now.
       Later that night, Will waited for An Yi. His hands trembled when her ghostly figure emerged for her nightly search.
       "An Yi," he said. She turned to face him, her movements slow and dreamlike, the same way she had claimed her previous victim.
       "You found Qi Liang?" Her voice splintered at the mention of his name.
       "Sort of," Will stammered. "I found this." He pulled out the bloodied cloth note. "And this." He produced the golden locket from his pocket. She shrank.
        "Where?" she said.
        "No body was recovered, only this was found after the Sierra explosion."
        "Show me. . ." Her translucent body passed through him. She probed the recesses of his mind. Her presence was like ice crawling through his bones. Then she seized his shirt and pulled him through an invisible portal.
       They landed at the site of the explosion. Charred flesh saturated the air. Burnt limbs lay twisted in unnatural shapes. Heads crushed or half-melted to the earth. The stench of smoke and death seeped through the atmosphere.
       Will lurched forward and retched. An Yi sank to her knees. A mournful wail tore from her throat.
       "I'm sorry, Qi Liang. I came too late." She began methodically peeling off the skin she had painted on, strip by strip, until her scorched body was exposed. She laid her skin on fragmented rails. Her burns reignited, and fire crept along her flesh with fervor.
       She turned to Will and mouthed, thank you. She clasped the locket around her neck and clutched the piece of bloodied cloth in her hand. Flames curled all over her body, coiling upward like a twisted serpent. The ruins of the explosion site erupted in a violent blaze.
       The heat licked Will's skin, forcing him to stagger backward. His mouth dropped open, but he couldn't breathe. He stood frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the flames that devoured An Yi.
       The ground trembled. In the distance, Chinese workers dropped their shovels and pickaxes. One by one, they walked off the tracks. Among them were familiar faces such as Lee, Wong, Ah Cui, and many more. Cries rose like thunder, chanting songs of protest and freedom. The Americans shouted, cracked their whips and aimed their guns. Hundreds of laborers kept walking.
       The strike had begun. The flames roared down the tracks, leaving a trail of fury and ash.
       Will stumbled. Heat rippled his vision. Dizziness took hold, and everything went dark.

       Will opened his eyes to the hum of the air-conditioned cabin train. His clothes were damp with sweat. He still held onto Ma's photo. Her wedding ring was gone. A small lump pressed against his leg. He pulled it out of his pocket to find the locket.
       His throat closed. Grief pressed against his chest, not just for Ma, or An Yi, but also for all the ones who had labored, suffered, and vanished into American soil.
       The train's intercom crackled to life.
       "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the interruption. We are now ready to resume our journey. Please remain seated. We thank you for choosing United National Railways."
       The train jolted and pulled forward. Will was back in the present, back in the world that had taken Ma. For years, he had avoided returning to San Francisco to watch his Ma wither away in the restaurant. But he was done running away from his past. The restaurant wasn't just Ma's legacy--it was the bloodline of every sacrifice that came before. He no longer saw her cold, bloodied corpse lying in the hospital. He thought of Ma's hearty laughter when she picked him up as a child in front of the restaurant. The crinkle in her eyes when she folded soup dumplings and stirred sesame oil into boiling broth.
       Will didn't want to let others decide the restaurant's fate. The American Dream may have been a pipe dream, but he would not let her suffering or the generations before her be forgotten.
       When the train pulled into the next stop, Will stepped off. He bought a return ticket back to San Francisco.
       Back to where he belonged.