A rare, unseasonal rain sprinkled down, relieving some of the unpleasant heat at the end of February. At midnight, in Vinhomes Landmark 81, every apartment seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep. However, an unknown noise smoldered through the hallway of the 43rd floor. The strange sound came from the apartment of Mr. Tang.

In Mr. Tang’s bedroom, a brawny man in his 30s named Tien was talking in his sleep. He kept apologizing to someone as he held up his left palm, which had a long scar running through the middle. His wife, Thy, a much younger woman, lay next to him, trying to wake him up. This was the third time that day—once during his after-lunch nap and twice during his night sleep. It had been happening for three days in a row now, which made it serious. Thy insisted that her husband go get it checked at a hospital. Tien blamed it on work stress—he was a manager at a big marketing company. But as he met Thy’s worried eyes, he agreed to go to a clinic next week. Thy wanted him to go the next day, but he refused and went back to sleep.

Tien’s mother had just bought a new house in Saigon, and she had asked him and his youngest brother to help with the move. He and his brother had promised to help her the next day. Thy was concerned about this because of Tien’s symptoms, but he avoided mentioning it since he didn’t want to break his promise. Besides, he thought his brother would be there if anything went wrong.

At 3 a.m. the next morning, Tien’s iPhone, resting on the coffee table beside the bed, started vibrating. He was too sleepy to answer. The phone stopped, then rang again four more times before going to voicemail. Each time it rang, it edged closer to the edge of the table until it finally tipped over and hit the dark brown wooden floor when another call came in.

The sound of the phone hitting the floor woke the Tangs. Tien picked it up, noticing a crack on the screen. Checking the voicemail, he found it was from his youngest brother, who informed him, in a hoarse voice, that he had come down with a bad flu, high fever, and severe coughing, and wouldn’t be able to help that day. Tien suspected his brother might be lying, given his reputation as a situationally talented actor in the family, but there was nothing he could do about it. When Thy asked, he told her it was just a wrong number.

Since his brother had bailed on him, Tien had to wake up earlier than planned to make sure everything got moved on time. Tired and groggy, he reassured himself with the thought that he’d at least avoid the morning rush-hour traffic. Thy asked him to call when he arrived. His mom’s old house was in Bien Hoa, a four-hour drive in the past but only about an hour now thanks to the newly built highway. He hoped to finish the move before 10 a.m., leaving him more than enough time to get to work afterward.

He set off at 4 a.m. just as dawn was breaking. The scenery on both sides of the road, though slightly changed, still reminded him of his childhood. As a kid, Tien loved visiting Bien Hoa, spending time with his mom and the neighborhood children. His dad and stepmother were always too busy with work to stay overnight at his mom’s place. Tien, eager to spend more time with his mom and friends, would wake the whole house up, even before the alarm. None of his siblings understood his motivation—Tien was the only child his dad and mom had together. His siblings didn’t enjoy Bien Hoa, finding Tien’s friends odd.

But time changes everything. In the past, even at this hour, the road would be busy with cars. Now, thanks to the new highway, there were none, which seemed odd. Tien thought he might have taken a wrong turn. He turned on the GPS, but the phone's screen seemed frozen. He figured it needed repairs. Maybe it was a holiday, he mused, explaining why no one was on the road. Although the streetlights were on, the eerie isolation made him uneasy. He longed for company but couldn't make any calls due to the cracked screen. He tried anyway.

Distracted by the phone, Tien took his eyes off the road for a second. When he looked up, a red convertible had suddenly appeared in front of him. He slammed on the brakes. Moments later, he heard tires screeching behind him, and a blue truck swerved to avoid hitting him. Tien rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself in the middle of a busy road, surrounded by cars. The drivers were yelling at him. He realized his lack of sleep must have caused him to hallucinate. Apologizing, Tien decided to postpone the move and head home.

The hallucinations worsened on his way back. The cars around him vanished, though he could still hear the honking. Tien was sure the cars were there—he just couldn’t see them. Perhaps this was another symptom of whatever illness he had, though he didn’t feel sleepy. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t safe to continue driving. He pulled over at a roadside pub and quickly drank a cup of coffee, hoping it would clear his head.

Tien had never liked the taste of coffee, drinking it the way a child takes bitter medicine. But he loved the smell, which reminded him of a pub near his mom’s old house where he and his friends used to play. They’d buy soft drinks and pretend they were drinking beer. The pub was called “Doan Tu.” Looking up at the sign, Tien was shocked—this pub had the same name, and his mom’s old house was just a short distance away.

Stunned, Tien stared at the house. When he glanced at his watch, it was already 8 a.m. He was confused—he hadn’t realized so much time had passed. Could this be another symptom? Seeing people walking around, he wondered if they were real. He shouted at them, and they looked at him with annoyance, proving they were indeed real. Although things weren’t going according to plan, he had arrived at his mom’s old house. It was time to rest.

As he drove closer, he saw children standing in front of the house. He lowered the window, intending to look at their faces, but some dirt flew into his eyes. When he blinked, the children were gone—perhaps they had run away.

His mom’s old house was a three-story, semi-detached building on the corner of the street. Strangely, it looked exactly the same as it had years ago. From the yellowish-green, peeling walls to the rusty gray windows and the milky folding door, nothing had changed. The coffee kicked in, raising Tien’s heartbeat. He got out of the car and sat on the little granite porch, knocking on the door and calling for his mom. No one answered, but the door was unlocked. Tien rushed to the second-floor bedroom, hoping the bed was still there. It was, and he crawled through the furniture to collapse onto it.

Tien awoke at noon with sunlight shining in through the window. His back was numb. Glancing down, he realized he had been sleeping on the floor. The room was completely empty—nothing like it had been before. He called out for his mom again, but only his own voice echoed through the house. Slowly, he explored the rest of the house. Just like the bedroom, it was empty—no furniture, no one inside. When he reached the ground floor, the front door was wide open. He heard voices outside. Stepping out carefully, he found the street empty.

In the corner of the street stood seven children—the same ones who had been outside when he first arrived. With their heads bowed, they chanted while standing in a chalk circle inscribed with unfamiliar symbols. Suddenly, five of them turned their heads toward Tien at once, calling his name. He heard the sound of their necks cracking unnaturally, as though metal statues were being forced out of position. Tien recognized their faces—they were his childhood friends from Bien Hoa. For a moment, he wanted to run and hug them. But then he stopped. None of this made sense. They looked exactly like his friends, but that was 20 years ago.