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Chapter 2 - The Unfortunate Lantern Festival Night

Centuries ago, the fate of a young Vietnamese woman became entwined with the rise and fall of the Champa dynasty.

Now, in present-day San Jose, a Vietnamese expatriate named Kien Quoc stumbles upon hidden traces of his ancestry—uncovering secrets that set him on a journey back to his origins, and into the heart of a forgotten past…

A cold wind slipped through the crack in the door.

 Thanh Mai shivered.

 Instinctively, she reached for the blanket—then froze.

Cold.

 Slimy.

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather slithered down her spine.

 Her breath quickened. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it were trying to break free.

She opened her eyes—and froze again.

 The blanket slipped from her fingers.

She was naked.

Beside her, Chan That lay still. His body radiated warmth.

She was rooted in place by shock. Her mind screamed, but no words came.

 It felt as though the floor had vanished beneath her, and she was plummeting into darkness.

 A scream welled up—but died in her throat.

The door rattled.

 Footsteps thundered down the hallway—heavy, fast, inescapable.

Then—

 BOOM!

The door slammed open.

 The flickering light of an oil lamp spilled into the room, casting jagged shadows across General Vo Uy's face—twisted in fury.

The sword at his waist trembled, as if it too shared in his rage.

"Thanh Mai! How can you face me now?!"

 His roar exploded through the room, echoing off the walls like a war drum.

Thanh Mai shook violently. Tears blurred her vision.

 She clutched the blanket to her chest, her voice barely a breath:

 "Father… I don't know… what happened…"

For a moment, something like pain flickered in Vo Uy's eyes.

 Then it vanished—consumed by fire.

With a sharp hiss, his sword left its sheath.

 Steel gleamed in the lamplight, hungry and cold.

 He raised the blade—its tip aimed straight at Chan That.

Whoosh!

The blade sliced past Chan That's cheek—so close it carried death in its wake.

"Father, stop!" Thanh Mai cried out.

Chan That moved.

 He grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around himself, and leapt for the window.

No time to think.

 No time to breathe.

BOOM!

 He was gone, swallowed by the night.

Inside, Thanh Mai collapsed to the floor.

 Her tears flowed silently. Her eyes stared into nothing.

Everything had shattered.

 It all happened so fast.

 A nightmare, unannounced and merciless.

Why?

 Why her?

 Why Chan That?

 Who had pulled the strings of this cruel trap?

Outside, under the dim silver of the moon, Chan That ran.

 Bare feet slicing through the leaves.

 Each step echoed in the silence, chased by the pounding footsteps of a man he could never outrun.

General Vo Uy followed, wrath burning like a storm behind him.

"There's no escape!"

 His voice split the air like a thunderclap.

Thanh Mai still hadn't moved.

 Her heart was breaking.

 She wanted to run after Chan That.

 She wanted to scream.

 She wanted to throw herself at her father's feet and beg.

But she couldn't move.

 Fear had woven itself around her limbs, tight as chains.

Then—her eyes locked on the table.

A small porcelain jar.

 Cloudy liquid.

 A strange, cloying scent.

 Too sweet. Too thick.

Her hand reached out, trembling.

 The jar was cold in her palm.

A flash—

 A figure in the hallway last night.

 The scent in the room.

 The dizziness.

 The slow fade into unconsciousness.

The wine was drugged.

She was set up.

 Chan That was innocent.

But her father—he wouldn't believe it.

 Not now. Not like this.

Her voice cracked from dryness as she whispered to the stillness:

 "I can't let him take the blame... but I can't let my father kill me either..."

She drew in a shaky breath.

 The fear was still there—but it no longer ruled her.

She stood.

This wasn't how her story would end.

Wrapped in a silk robe, Thanh Mai fled into the night.

It was the Lantern Festival.

 The full moon hung high above, its pale light pouring over the earth like cold water.

 Unforgiving.

 Uncovering everything.

At a quiet crossroads, she stopped and turned back.

The general's mansion loomed behind her—dark, silent, unfamiliar.

 Once, it had been her home.

 The place where her father had lifted her into his arms when she cried.

 Now, it was only shadows.

She bit her lip, turned away, and didn't look back.

Where would she go?

 How could she prove the truth?

There were no answers.

 No shelter.

 No certainty.

But she kept walking.

The moonlight stretched across the road ahead, hazy and endless—like the path her life was now taking.

 Her figure shrank into the night, delicate but unbroken.

 A single flame against the wind.

 Refusing to go out.

Outside, the north wind hissed through the trees.

 The scent of spring blossoms drifted on the air, faint and bittersweet.

Thanh Mai pulled her robe tighter.

 Her steps wavered, but they didn't stop.

From this moment on, she would walk alone.

 She would face the world, the lies, the danger.

Her heart thundered in her chest. But deep inside, a voice urged:

You must not fall.

Sweet memories began to flood Thanh Mai's mind, soft as mist.

 Though they carried with them the anxious ache of waiting, they were threaded with joy—a quiet anticipation that warmed her heart.

It was the last day of the year.

 The general's mansion hummed with preparation for the Lunar New Year.

 Thanh Mai, beloved daughter of General Vo Uy, moved gently through the festive bustle—her presence graceful, almost dreamlike.

Laughter echoed from every corner. Red lanterns glowed brightly, casting a warm hue across the courtyard.

 Yet in Thanh Mai's eyes, there lingered a quiet sorrow, and a hope she could not conceal.

The winter wind slipped through cracks in the doors, brushing against her skin like a whisper.

She moved slowly across the cool tiled floor. Her wooden clogs clicked softly, steady as a heartbeat in the hush of night.

A light blue silk dress clung delicately to her figure. Her gaze shimmered with both longing and quiet resilience.

The golden glow of oil lamps, the sweet scent of blooming apricot blossom, and the distant crackle of firecrackers filled the air with the soul of spring—a season of reunion and renewal.

Thanh Mai oversaw every detail of the celebration with care, but her heart was fixed on one thing: the hope that Trung Quan would return in time.

 Despite the chill of early spring, she waited by lamplight, willing him home so that this Tết would be complete.

On New Year's Eve, the general's residence pulsed with a strange vitality—brighter, warmer than ever.

 Red lanterns hung high, swaying gently in the breeze, their soft light weaving through the cool night like ribbons of warmth.

 Peach blossoms and yellow apricot blooms fluttered on the wind, their falling petals dancing in the air—each one a whisper of poetry.

Even the purple orchids had bloomed, their subtle fragrance blending with the crisp spring air.

On the front porch, Chan That—Thanh Mai's deaf and mute foster brother—was gently dusting the pairs of red couplets hanging on either side of the wooden pillars.

 His rough, weathered hands moved with surprising tenderness, as if afraid to disturb the fresh ink that still clung to the paper like new blessings.

He could not speak, nor hear the laughter around him—but he felt it.

 In the brightness of their eyes, in the lightness of their steps, in the way they lingered near each other… he sensed the joy of reunion.

 And he understood: this waiting was more than a tradition. It was a silent, collective hope.

Hope for a peaceful new year.

 Hope for the safe return of Trung Quan, the hero far away on the borderlands.

Dressed in a white silk gown adorned with delicate floral embroidery, Thanh Mai stood at the edge of the porch, her gaze resting on the quiet figure of her foster brother.

Chan That was still diligently working, his movements careful and unhurried. The glow of lantern light fell across his gentle face, his eyes lit with simple joy—the kind that asked for nothing and gave everything.

A soft warmth bloomed in Thanh Mai's heart.

 How many times had he, without a word, brought comfort to this house?

 In his silence, there was steadiness.

 In his presence, peace.

On a cold New Year's Eve, what could be more precious than this kind of quiet love—the unspoken bond of those who share the same roof, the same memories, the same hopes?

Laughter rose from the servants nearby, mingling with the distant echo of firecrackers.

 The air shimmered with anticipation.

 It was as if the whole world had been transformed into a living spring painting—full of color, warmth, and expectation.

Thanh Mai stepped out into the night.

 Her eyes turned toward the sky, toward the distant horizon where she believed Trung Quan was crossing mountains and rivers to return in time.

In her heart, this Lantern Festival night already carried the promise of reunion—of joy and hope blooming together like twin flowers.

 If he came home tonight, the spring would be complete. Just as she had always wished.

Later, in the quiet of her room, beneath the golden light of an oil lamp, Thanh Mai gently unfolded the red silk robe she had spent days preparing.

The fabric shimmered like the setting sun—soft, warm, and elegant.

 Along the hem, delicate golden thread traced the shape of a crane in flight—a symbol of peace, longevity, and safe returns.

 She smoothed it carefully, every fold a silent prayer.

In her mind, she saw Trung Quan as she remembered him—sun-kissed skin, eyes shining with determination, and that smile she couldn't forget.

 She imagined his surprise when she handed him the robe, his laughter echoing softly through the room.

Her cheeks flushed.

 Her heart stirred.

 But she didn't let herself drift too far into the daydream.

There was still work to be done.

Though she had assigned most of the tasks to the servants, she couldn't rest.

 Each time she passed the kitchen, she paused to check the Tết meal preparations, unable to stop herself from tending to every detail.

The air was thick with the sweet scent of braised pork. Each piece had simmered in coconut glaze until it melted at the touch of a chopstick.

In the living room, stacks of green bánh chưng sat neatly wrapped—square and solid, like the earth itself, wrapped in dong leaves and tied with care. They held the flavor of spring… and of her hopes.

On a polished mahogany tray, she had arranged pale lotus seed jam—sweet, smooth, and soft as moonlight. Just looking at it stirred a quiet joy in her chest.

Each dish wasn't just part of the holiday. It was her way of reaching him—soft, silent, and full of longing.

 They were silent love letters, written in flavor, color, and care.

And every time her eyes fell upon those trays, a small smile curved her lips.

 She imagined him sitting at the family table, weary from the long journey, finally home.

 A bowl in his hands.

 Warmth in his eyes.

And in that imagined moment, Thanh Mai felt the happiness of spring—complete, glowing softly in the space between memory and hope.

His voice calling her name, the tenderness in his eyes, and the warmth in his words still echoed in the quiet corners of the general's mansion.

 In the soft glow of anticipation, time seemed to slow—each passing moment part of a silent ritual, the dream of a young woman weaving her hopes into the fabric of the coming spring.

 Thanh Mai waited not with impatience, but with reverent care—for the day longing would transform into joy.

As night gently descended, a cool breeze slipped in through the half-open window, stirring the white silk curtains with a whisper.

 Thanh Mai looked up at the star-speckled sky, her heart sending a silent prayer into the vastness:

"My dear, please come back on time."

Outside, the golden hoa mai branches swayed gently on the porch, as if responding to her hope—each blossom whispering in harmony with her quiet yearning.

The general's residence was alive with color and celebration.

 Red lanterns danced in the spring wind, casting warm, shifting patterns on the walls.

 Peach blossoms bloomed in soft pinks, yellow apricot flowers lit the space like scattered sunlight, and the air itself seemed steeped in joy.

In the heart of it all sat General Vo Uy.

Once a fearsome figure on the battlefield, now age had softened his silhouette. His hair had turned silver, his face etched with the marks of a long and storied life.

 And yet, there was a quiet strength in his gaze—deep, composed, full of reflection.

The war was behind him now.

 What he longed for most was not glory or victory, but peace.

 Family.

 Reunion.

 Warmth.

Every movement he made today carried tenderness. Not the commanding strength of a general—but the quiet love of a father, a patriarch, and a man devoted to his home.

He opened a red-lacquered wooden box and carefully removed the bright red lucky money envelopes he had prepared in advance.

 The first were for Old Thanh and Nanny Chiem, two lifelong companions who had served and loved this family with unwavering devotion since Thanh Mai's childhood.

Old Thanh, lean and upright like an old bamboo stalk, his eyesight dimmed by time, received the envelope with steady hands and bowed his head.

"Thank you, General. May this year bring your family peace and prosperity,"

 he said, his voice raspy but thick with emotion.

Nanny Chiem, ever gentle, accepted hers quietly, her warm eyes glistening with gratitude.

 For them, this house was more than a place of work—it was home.

 A place where the days had passed like pages in a cherished book, filled with laughter, sorrow, and the bonds of a life shared under one roof.

Thanh Mai, wrapped in a flowing silk dress the color of soft spring petals, bowed her head gracefully as she accepted the red envelope from her father.

"Thank you, Father," she whispered, her voice gentle and warm.

 Her eyes shimmered with gratitude, shadowed by quiet sorrow.

She knew he tried to bring warmth and joy to their home. But joy couldn't reach the hollow left by Trung Quan's absence.

He would not return in time to share New Year's Eve.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the envelope, seeking comfort in its smooth surface, as though it could carry the warmth she longed for.

 Her gaze drifted toward the half-open window, where the distant sky burst into colors—fireworks blooming like fleeting flowers in the night.

But inside the house, the space felt quieter than usual.

 Incomplete.

Her stepmother, a kind woman now heavy with child, had retired early due to fragile health.

Her usual place beside General Vo Uy sat empty, the vacant chair a silent reminder of her absence.

Though he said nothing, the general's eyes often wandered to that space—softened with a shadow of worry.

 He was a man forged by war and duty, yet when it came to his family, his heart had always been tender.

The mansion, usually filled with laughter and voices on New Year's Eve, held a quieter tone this year.

 Even the music of fireworks outside couldn't fill the stillness that lingered in certain corners.

Thanh Mai observed everything—the way smiles were slightly more subdued, the way conversations drifted then faded.

 Her heart swelled with an emotion she couldn't quite name—a mixture of longing, gratitude, and the ache of incompletion.

Family reunions during Tết were always sacred, always tender—but they also had their silences.

 Their waiting.

 Their echoes of someone missing.

She rose quietly and stepped out into the yard.

 The spring air embraced her, carrying with it the soft rustle of leaves and the delicate fragrance of apricot blossoms.

Looking up at the kaleidoscope sky, she whispered into the wind,

 "Where are you, or am I still waiting?"

The breeze caught her hair and carried her words into the night, along with the scent of hoa mai—sweet and fleeting, like a promise that spring would always return, even after the longest wait.

Though the night stretched on, Thanh Mai could not sleep.

 She slipped quietly onto the porch and settled beside Chan That, near the warmth of a flickering fire.

They didn't speak—words weren't needed.

 The glow of the flames cast a soft light on their thoughtful faces, shadows dancing across their cheeks like silent companions.

From a short distance, Old Thanh's voice carried through the quiet, hoarse but steady as he shared stories of long-past days.

 Each word felt like a gentle thread pulling memories from the depths, weaving them into the present - a quiet reminder that even in silence, even in waiting, love remained.

From time to time, Thanh Mai and Chan That found their eyes drifting toward the palace gate—drawn there as if by instinct, or perhaps by silent hope.

 For her, that gate was more than just an entrance. It was a threshold where yearning lingered.

 She imagined, again and again, a familiar silhouette appearing there…

His image remained vivid in her mind—sharp, unwavering—each memory of him like a thread tugging gently at her heart.

 She recalled the message he had once carved so carefully into the cliffside at Phu The Ho Quoc Pagoda—a vow etched into stone, into time.

"It must still be there," she thought,

 "It hasn't faded… not yet."

Her eyes drifted into the dark horizon, where memory and belief blurred—where the night held both her past and her hope.

On the morning of the first day of the new year, the general's household gathered for the Lunar New year meal.

 Spring had arrived in full—bright and fragrant.

The main hall glowed with red: parallel sentences hung proudly on the walls, lanterns cast a warm and festive light.

 The air was thick with the rich aroma of braised pork, sweet cakes, and candied fruits—scents that wrapped the moment in joy and tradition.

Laughter rippled through the house. Servants chatted cheerfully, their voices filling the space with familiar life.

General Vo Uy sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding but composed.

 His stern features softened under the golden lamplight, eyes quietly scanning the scene of reunion.

 Though he spoke little, contentment was written in the calmness of his gaze.

Then, without warning, a sudden wind rose—

 a violent gust that tore across the front garden.

The howling wind swallowed the laughter, sweeping through the mansion like a sudden storm.

CRACK.

The sharp noise startled everyone.

Before their eyes, the ancient yellow apricot tree in the courtyard—so old it had witnessed countless springs—splintered and fell.

 Its blossoms scattered like golden tears, carpeting the stone yard in a sea of wilted petals.

Spring, moments ago so brilliant, now seemed hushed—stilled by a breath of sorrow.

The house fell silent.

Servants stopped mid-motion. Eyes widened. Hands froze.

 An invisible weight settled over the gathering, as if nature itself had spoken.

Murmurs began—soft, anxious. Glances passed between family and staff alike, some filled with superstition, others with silent dread.

Was this a sign?

An ill omen on the very first morning of the year?

But amidst the hush, General Vo Uy stood, calm and unshaken.

 His voice, when it came, was low but steady—cutting through the fear like a steady flame:

"This is only a passing wind. Nothing more.We shouldn't pay too much attention to such things on New Year's Day."

His eyes lingered on the fallen tree—not in fear, but in thought.

His voice was deep and warm, each word gently dissolving the tension in the air, bringing a sense of peace to those around him.

 Turning to his pregnant wife, he softly took her hand and whispered, "Our child will be born this year—that will be a great blessing for the family. Everything will be fine."

 His words shone like light through dark clouds, slowly calming the unsettled atmosphere within the mansion.

 One by one, people began to stir. They rolled up their sleeves and moved into the garden, quietly sweeping fallen petals and leaves.

 The sound of bamboo brooms brushing against stone, mingled with soft conversation, gradually erased the earlier unease.

 The palace returned to its familiar rhythm—a cozy, comforting Tet once more.

On the morning of the second day of the Lunar New Year, as the first rays of spring sunlight filtered through the leaves, Thanh Mai dressed in a light blue áo dài and carefully prepared offerings to visit her birth mother's grave.

 The path to the cemetery lay beneath a canopy of trees, their new spring leaves drifting down like whispers, forming a soft carpet beneath her feet.

 Standing before the familiar grave, Thanh Mai clasped her hands and bowed her head in quiet prayer.

 She shared with her mother everything that had happened in the mansion—both the joys and the worries of Tet—and spoke, too, of Trung Quan, the one she still waited for with all her heart.

 The breeze carried the gentle scent of the fresh yellow chrysanthemums she had placed in front of the grave, like a wish for a peaceful spring offered to the one she missed most.

When she returned home, Thanh Mai spent nearly the entire day caring for her family.

 She cleaned the living room with her own hands, carefully polishing each wooden table and chair until they shone.

 Then she stepped into the kitchen and began preparing the dishes Trung Quan had once loved most: a fragrant, sweet mushroom soup, a plate of elegant spring rolls, and a tray of pure white lotus seed jam, delicate and rich.

 Each dish was prepared with thought and tenderness, as though infused with all her longing and quiet hope.

 "If you come back, I will give you a complete and warm Tet holiday," she whispered, her eyes bright with unspoken feeling.

Each afternoon, as the shadows lengthened across the courtyard, Thanh Mai would sit quietly on the porch, her gaze fixed on the palace gate—still holding on to the hope that Trung Quan's familiar figure might appear at any moment.

 The spring breeze stirred the few remaining hoa mai blossoms in the garden, their gentle rustling echoing the rhythm of her heart—soft, steady, and full of faith.

On the morning of the eighth day of the new year, Thanh Mai rose early to prepare a small but elegant meal for General Vo Uy, who was expecting an old friend visiting from the capital.

 She took care with every detail, creating a table that was humble in form but rich in intention:

 a plate of golden boiled chicken, a bowl of light, refreshing offal soup, and a side of mildly sour pickled onions to complete the traditional Tet flavors.

Everything was thoughtfully arranged—as if, through this offering of food, she could also offer a bit of joy and comfort to her father in this early spring.

When the guest arrived, Thanh Mai immediately noticed his poised, refined manner—elegant, yet edged with a quiet intensity.

 His sharp eyes carried something elusive, hidden behind the politeness of his smile.

At first, the atmosphere in the hall was warm and lively.

 The two men shared laughter and tales of their youth, recalling days on the battlefield with a kind of nostalgia that made Thanh Mai's heart ease.

But the lightness did not last.

Gradually, the joy faded into something heavier.

 Words gave way to pauses.

 Smiles dimmed.

 An unspoken tension hung in the air.

The guest did not stay long.

 He rose quickly, offering a few parting words, but his furrowed brow betrayed thoughts left unspoken.

General Vo Uy walked him to the gate, his hands clasped behind his back.

 He watched silently as his friend disappeared down the stone path, where fallen spring leaves scattered like quiet echoes.

From that moment on, something in him shifted.

He returned to his study and closed the door behind him.

 His once-clear gaze was clouded, his expression heavy with a weight he did not share.

In the days that followed, he became a shadow of himself—appearing only briefly at meals, his presence distant even when he was in the room.

 No matter how beautifully Thanh Mai arranged the dishes, no matter how attentively she served them, he would take only a few bites before rising wordlessly, leaving behind a deep, unspoken silence.

He returned to his study, where the flickering light of the oil lamp cast long shadows on the walls.

 There, behind the closed wooden door, sat a man once noble and commanding—now carrying a burden too heavy to name.

Thanh Mai watched him with quiet worry.

 She wanted to speak. To reach out. But something inside held her still.

 Instead, she observed him from a distance, reading every movement, every pause, every shift in his expression.

And when she cleared the table at night, her eyes would drift once more to the study door—still closed, still silent—guarding whatever secret now weighed on her father's soul.

A soft sigh drifted through the crack of the study door in the stillness of night, and it struck Thanh Mai's heart like a whisper of sorrow.

 She could only guess—some pressing matter at court, a problem weighing heavily on her father's mind, robbing him of sleep.

But she knew his nature well.

 General Vo Uy carried his burdens in silence, locking them within himself, never willing to let others—least of all his daughter—share in his worries.

A vague unease began to stir within her.

 Standing by the window, she gazed out into the indigo spring sky, her fingers absentmindedly brushing the hem of her silk dress.

 She silently wished that whatever troubled him would soon pass, so that peace might return to the halls of the general's mansion.

Yet the wind outside carried with it a chill.

 Yellow apricot petals drifted softly down onto the brick steps, and with every fall, her heart sank deeper into an indescribable premonition.

On the morning of the Lantern Festival, Thanh Mai awoke early.

 She dressed in a pale silk blouse, light as morning mist, and stepped out onto the porch, her steps quiet and unhurried.

She made her way to the old magnolia tree in the center of the garden, where clusters of delicate white blooms released a faint, sweet scent that mingled with the cool spring breeze.

At her side sat a cup of lotus-scented black tea, steam curling upward in soft tendrils like the breath of dawn.

 She lifted the cup slowly to her lips, sipping in silence.

 The subtle bitterness gave way to a gentle sweetness that lingered on her tongue—just as longing lingered in her chest.

In her mind, the image returned—bright and vivid:

Trung Quan, stepping through the palace gate with a smile that warmed the early spring air.

She pictured his eyes, gentle and kind, and felt the warmth rise to her cheeks at the thought of his return.

It felt so close, so real, like a dream just on the edge of waking.

Beside her, a white porcelain plate held a few pieces of lotus seed jam, still fresh from the night before.

The soft, sweet flavor melted in her mouth, a mirror of the tenderness quietly blooming in her heart.

She smiled faintly, fingertips brushing over the glistening jam as if imagining him seated across from her, tasting her creation and gently praising her skill, just as he once had.

But when she looked up, her eyes found only stillness.

The vermilion gate stood quiet, unmoved.

No sound of hooves, no figure on the horizon—only the gentle patter of spring rain on the damp stone path.

To shake off the heaviness pressing on her heart, Thanh Mai rose and began to walk the garden paths her father had lovingly cultivated over the years.

Peach blossoms bloomed in soft pinks, white plum flowers opened like drifting clouds, and deep purple orchids stood proudly beside the cheerful yellow bursts of chrysanthemums along the moss-covered walls.

 Even the old apricot branches, weathered but resilient, bore a few fresh buds, their pale yellow petals trembling faintly in the wind.

Above her, the birds sang softly from the trees, their cheerful chirping falling like notes of comfort, as if trying to lift the spirit of the quiet girl wandering among the flowers—her steps slow, her gaze distant, her heart still waiting.

Pausing beneath a tree, Thanh Mai softly recited the seven-word verse she had composed the night before—each line carrying the weight of her heart:

"The golden sand borders one far away,

 Spring winds bear dreams to the distant sky.

 The sorrowful moon glows on the old porch,

 A shadow of longing waits for the passing guest."

She believed, in the quiet corners of her heart, that Trung Quan would love the poem once he returned.

 But she didn't know when—or if—she would ever be able to place it in his hands herself.

A light breeze stirred her dress, lifting the soft words into the air, carrying them through the still garden like an invisible confession whispered to someone far beyond reach.

As the Lantern Festival sunset deepened, the sky bathed the garden in hues of faded gold and orange.

 Thanh Mai moved silently through the quiet halls, a tray of food balanced carefully in her hands—prepared with love, meant for one person only.

She set it gently on the living room table: a plate of crisp spring rolls, a fragrant bowl of mushroom soup, a delicate tray of lotus seed jam, and a cup of steaming tea.

Untouched, they sat in stillness, each dish a silent echo of her waiting.

Every rustle of wind outside, every faint footfall made her turn toward the gate—only to find nothing but drifting leaves, the hurried steps of servants retreating to their rooms, and the emptiness of her own hope, flickering like a candle in the wind.

That night, under the full moon of the Lantern Festival, a silver glow spread across the courtyard, turning every brick and blossom into quiet reflections of light.

Thanh Mai sat alone on a woven mat, her arms wrapped around her monochord, its lacquered body resting against her chest.

Her fingers moved, plucking softly. The notes floated into the night—mournful, quiet. A whisper from a breaking heart.

Her eyes drifted once again toward the palace gate.

 It stood unchanged, cloaked in moonlight.

 No shadow stirred. No familiar footsteps echoed.

Still, she watched, willing some miracle to cross the threshold and end this waiting.

But the night deepened.

 The music faded into the dark, carrying with it the last fragile threads of her hope.

Blossom flower petals fluttered down through the breeze, falling like quiet witnesses to the heart of a girl who waited still—her longing written in silence, her soul tied to a promise not yet fulfilled.

And so, Thanh Mai held close a single, unwavering dream:

 That one day, beneath this familiar roof, they would all gather again in a complete, joyful reunion.

The Lantern Festival wind swept through. Dew clung to her skin, snapping her back from the haze of longing to sharp, biting reality.

 But she no longer trembled.

There was a fire in her eyes now—steady, unyielding.

Tonight, the truth must come to light.

 This injustice would be righted.

 No matter the cost.

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