Flight of the Butterfly

"Flight 2317 to Sydney is now boarding at Gate C12. All passengers please proceed to the gate with your boarding pass and identification ready. We will begin with our priority passengers, followed by general boarding.

The announcement echoed through the nearly empty terminal, making me jump. For a moment, I felt that familiar urge to turn around, to go back to my apartment with its color-coded calendar and neatly labeled meal prep containers. But then I remembered Māma's words from that day in the hospital, how her eyes had sparked with a fierce kind of hope when she talked about making mistakes. My hands were trembling as I gripped my carry-on, but my steps were steady as I walked toward the gate. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let go of the plan.

The overnight flight was half-empty, which meant I had a whole row to myself. As I settled into my window seat, I couldn't help but laugh at the irony—here I was, finally doing something spontaneous, and I was doing it alone. Between perfecting my routines, working on my thesis, and helping Dad with the family business since Mom passed, my life had become a series of carefully scheduled obligations.

The engine's steady hum and gentle cabin sway filled the night air. Most passengers had drifted off hours ago, their faces ghostly in the dim cabin lights. I slipped on my wireless headphones, letting Kun's "Good Night" wash over me like a lullaby. Between the familiar melody and the plane's rhythmic movement, sleep came easily. I dreamed of Mom, of us dancing in her garden, her movements flowing like water through the moonflowers she loved so much.

The first violent shake yanked me from sleep. For a moment, my mind still clouded with dreams, I thought I was back at Golden Dragon, the bass thundering through my bones. But as my headphones clattered to the floor, reality crashed in. This was different. The plane lurched again, harder this time. Overhead compartments burst open like broken ribcages, spewing their contents across screaming passengers. Yellow oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling like falling blossoms, swaying in the chaos. The cabin lights flickered once, twice, then plunged us into darkness.

"This is your captain speaking. We're experiencing severe—" Static cut through his words. "—mechanical failure. Please remain—"

Time stretched like taffy. A flight attendant's scream pierced through the chaos. Through my window, I watched the wing tear away as if it were made of paper. The ocean below looked almost peaceful, a dark mirror reflecting the storm above.

My hands fumbled with the life vest under my seat—muscle memory from all those pre-flight safety demonstrations I'd always half-ignored. As the plane pitched forward, I thought of Mom again. "The best stories never start with 'I followed my carefully crafted five-year plan,'" she'd said. I wanted to tell her this wasn't quite the kind of adventure I'd had in mind.

The impact felt like hitting concrete. Metal screamed. Water rushed in. And then—darkness.

When I came to, I was already in the water, my yellow life vest the only thing keeping me afloat in the endless blue. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in colors I'd never appreciated before.

The wreckage of Flight 2317 had vanished completely—no floating debris, no other passengers, no sign that a plane had ever broken the ocean's surface. I was alone in the vast Pacific, surrounded by nothing but waves that stretched endlessly to the horizon.

My eyes grew heavy as exhaustion began to take hold. The gentle rocking of the waves almost felt soothing, until the reality of my situation crashed over me like a tidal wave. Tears mixed with the salt water already on my face as deep, wracking sobs tore through my body.

"This isn't fair!" I screamed into the empty air, my voice raw and desperate. "I'm only twenty-eight! I haven't even finished my graduate degree!" My fists pounded against the water's surface, sending droplets flying. "I've never even had a boyfriend! Never held hands, never kissed anyone!"

The irony wasn't lost on me: my first truly spontaneous decision might end up being my last. The graduation ceremony was supposed to be next month. Mom would have been so proud...

My exhausted body had long since forced my eyes shut, but my other senses sparked with strange inputs that my waterlogged brain struggled to process. Instead of the expected whir of helicopter blades or modern rescue boats, I heard the distinct creak of wooden planks and the snap of heavy canvas in the wind. The sounds transported me to the ancient maritime exhibits I'd visited at the National Museum in Beijing—but that couldn't be right.

The last sensations wash over me in waves: first, the coarse scratch of hemp rope against my skin, rough as the calluses from years of dance practice. Then comes the unexpected aroma of temple incense—sandalwood and jasmine—so familiar it makes my heart ache, mixing with the sharp brine of the sea. The voices calling out in ancient Mandarin sound like they're floating across centuries, their formal tones as different from my modern Beijing dialect as classical dance is from hip-hop.

"Quick, look! Yellow in the water ahead!" The ancient words float through the air like autumn leaves.

As consciousness ebbs away like the final notes of a forgotten melody, I hear my mother's voice one last time, clear as the day she urged me to embrace life's adventures: "Live magnificently, my precious one."

Then everything dissolves into darkness, like the final bow after a performance—except this time, I don't know if there will be an encore.