Cristina strolls out of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, a small suitcase in hand, and calls out for a yellow cab. It has been four years since she has been back at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital; the city exhales a scent of familiarity, but also an devastating air of obscurity. She has been asked to return many times, of course—for special consults and remarkable heart surgeries and weddings and five year we-survived-a-plane-crash anniversary gatherings. But she couldn't bring herself to come back. Cristina was already doing cutting edge surgeries, conducting groundbreaking medicinal research, so there's that. And truth be told, she didn't want to see her friends' lives going on without her, or witness tearful wedding parties, or bear another set of rotational goodbyes.

To return to a place she had a deepest trouble leaving, Cristina needed a push. And there was nothing quite like Richard Webber's cardiac tumor to get her to down a bottle of tequila, strap herself onto the soonest flight to Seattle, and step through the hospital doors and into a flood of old memories.

When she walked into the lobby, she couldn't recognize anyone. Thelma, the nurse who was usually in the front, isn't there anymore, and the surgeons usually floating around the ER wing are new interns and residents that she'd never met.

"Hi," Cristina says to the perky redheaded nurse, who had just hung up the phone. "I'm Dr. Cristina Yang. I'm here for Dr. Webber. What room is he in?"

"Oh, you're the infamous Dr. Yang!" she responds, and Cristina jumps as she claps her hands together enthusiastically. "Oh, it's so great to meet you. I'm Cindy. We've never met, but I started working here when you left for Zurich and the people in this hospital just love you and, here, let me just check where Dr. Webber is and I can take you there myself—"

"That's all right, Cindy. I can take her there."

Cristina whips her head around at a voice she has only been hearing through a muffled cell phone or shaky Skype call. Smiling, Cristina turns around to throw her arms around Meredith, squeezing her tight. "It's good to see you," she says tearfully. When they break apart, she notices Meredith's cotton, dark maroon dress, and her new lab coat fitted swiftly over her shoulders. On the corner of the jacket, it reads: Meredith Grey, M.D. Chief of Surgery. "I can't believe it," Cristina says, and the look on Meredith's face indicates that she knows exactly what Cristina is referring to. "Seems like just yesterday that you were a gullible intern fighting over surgeries and making googly eyes at McDreamy."

"Oh, don't get all emotional," Meredith says, laughing. "Plus, you were always the gullible one."

"Untrue. How's Richard?"

"He's holding on," Meredith responds, her face shifting to slight somberness. She takes Cristina's suitcase from behind her and nods her head towards the end of the hallway. Cristina follows her through the crowds, of interns waiting to get their hands on the next incoming trauma, of residents stealing surgeries from each other, of attendings examining scans and strategizing their next move. A room full of chaos, an ER stocked up with patients, and she can't help but think of him. Cristina wants to ask Meredith where he is, what he is up to, if he is dating someone new, but she bites her tongue.

When they enter Richard's room, he is sitting up, a bunch of tubes extending from his face, and his heart monitored beside him. His eyes are sleepy when he looks up, but he tries to smile all the same.

"Yang," Richard says, his voice crackly. "How's Zurich?"

Cristina smiles, and takes the stethoscope that Meredith offers to check Richard's heartbeat. "We're going to take good care of you, okay?" she whispers to Richard, giving him the most reassuring face she could muster. "Don't you worry."

"How could I?" He lifts his hand to place on top of Cristina's, who is listening closely to a very muggy, irregular heart. "The cardio goddess is here."