The sky had just begun to lighten, and thin veils of mist still lingered over the rolling mountain ranges, stretching to where the horizon disappeared from view. The faint light of dawn filtered through the fog, painting the hillsides a pale rose, as if the world were still half-asleep, not yet ready to awaken. Quyen stirred, opening her eyes earlier than usual. She had barely slept last night—the intermittent cries of baby Tien, the anxious tossing of Ngoc, and the soft clatter of Thanh's footsteps as he rose to start the fire and warm some water, all played like an unfinished melody that had echoed in her mind throughout the long night.
She sat up quietly and pulled the thin blanket from her body, feeling the sharp chill of the highland morning seep into her skin. With light steps, she left the simple wooden bed and moved to the veranda. The air outside was thick with the scent of wild grasses and trees, mingled with the damp earth left from a brief rain the night before. She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs as if to chase away the lingering fatigue. Before her, the towering cliffs glowed with the soft pink of the rising sun, but swathes of mist still clung to the slopes, casting a dreamlike veil over the scenery, like an unfinished watercolor painting.
Quyen touched her cheek and noticed the cold still lingering on her skin. The nights in the highlands were always harsh, chilling one to the bone, even when the days were scorched and dry. She smiled faintly, a fleeting expression, as if telling herself she had grown used to this cold, to waking in the sharp air to the sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the wooden door. But deep down, she knew something was no longer the same. A vague, formless feeling, like a silent undercurrent, was rising within her, making her heart sink for reasons she could not name.
She gently closed the wooden door and turned back into the small house. The weak light from an oil lamp on the wall cast flickering shadows, illuminating the modest room. Ngoc was still sitting there, holding baby Tien, softly humming a folk lullaby she often sang on long nights. Tien, though fast asleep, stirred occasionally, his little lips puckered as if dreaming of something sweet. Thanh, who must have risen early, was no longer in the house. Quyen guessed he had gone down to the market below the pass to buy fresh food, as was his habit on weekend mornings.
Quyen's gaze swept across the room: the jars of millet stacked neatly in a corner, the hearth with a few charred remnants of firewood, the simple bamboo cradle against the wall, and the old, faded blanket Ngoc always used for Tien. It was all familiar, cozy, a picture of the simple life she had witnessed so many times. But today, something made her heart heavy. A strange feeling crept in—at once intimate and distant, as if she were standing before a door she did not dare to open.
As she approached the cradle, baby Tien suddenly startled, letting out a few whimpering cries. His tiny face was smudged, tears still clinging to his long lashes. His large, round eyes blinked, looking around the dim room with a lost expression, as if searching for a familiar figure. Ngoc, though accustomed to her son's sudden fits of crying, could not hide her exhaustion. She gently rubbed the baby's back, her voice soft but tinged with weariness.
"He must be hungry. That's how babies are, Quyen, their eating and sleeping is always irregular."
Quyen nodded, intending to stay and help Ngoc soothe the baby, but a sudden, baseless confusion made her pause. It was not the first time she had felt this. Last night, holding Tien, she had felt it too—a wave of contemplation that washed over her. The baby's tiny hand had gripped her finger, so soft and yet so fragile. In that moment, she had suddenly felt adrift in this vast world. Facing this little being, she realized she had never truly experienced the simple joy of that connection—the joy of a mother, a relative, of belonging to someone.
The baby's cries slowly subsided as Ngoc patiently patted him, then settled him in her arms to nurse. Ngoc's breathing was labored, as if every moment spent caring for her child was a trial she had to overcome with all the strength a young mother could muster. Quyen watched for a moment, then quietly suggested:
"You should get some more rest. I'll cook some porridge for you and Tien. Thanh will probably be hungry when he gets back, too."
Ngoc smiled faintly, her usual gentle expression not quite hiding the tired, dark circles under her eyes. She nodded, patting her son a little longer before leaning back against the bed frame, her gaze quietly following Quyen as she left.
Stepping down into the small kitchen, Quyen took another deep breath, feeling the morning's raw chill on her skin. In the corner of the hearth, a few embers still glowed a deep, smoldering red, like the last remnants of warmth from the night. She rolled up her sleeves and slowly kindled the fire. Orange-yellow flames flickered to life, casting out a welcome warmth that pushed back the surrounding cold. A faint breeze slipped through a crack in the door, making the flames tremble before they blazed more strongly. Watching the fire dance, Quyen felt a swell of ambiguous emotions, as if the flames were a reflection of her own soul—at times blazing, at times wavering, at times weak against an invisible wind.
In this small house in the cold highlands, she had a place to return to. But was it where her heart truly belonged? The question echoed silently in her mind, but she dared not pause to answer it. She only knew that here, in this harsh mountain region, she had found a family—not of blood, but of shared time, of joys and sorrows borne together with Thanh and Ngoc.
The first day they set foot at the school post, Quyen, Thanh, and Ngoc couldn't hide their astonishment. The school where they were to work—if it could be called a "school"—was just three thatched huts with rickety bamboo walls, open to the wind on all sides. The floor was packed earth, cracked from the sun, and in front was a yard of jagged stones, dotted with a few scorched patches of grass. The wind whistling through the walls made a rustling sound, like the whisper of the forest, at once familiar and strange.
Quyen pulled her scarf tighter, trying to conceal a trembling breath. She glanced silently at Thanh and Ngoc. All three had arrived full of enthusiasm, but now, faced with this scene, they could only stand in silence. A thought flickered through Quyen's mind: Could I turn back? But before she could dwell on it, a group of children came running toward them from the distance. They were barefoot on the rough ground, their small feet chapped from the cold. Each one was thin, their skin darkened by wind and sun, their hair a sun-bleached yellow. Their clothes were mismatched and patched in various colors; one child wore only a thin, oversized shirt that threatened to slip off his small frame. But their clear eyes shone with an unusual eagerness.
A little girl of about six or seven tugged on Quyen's sleeve and looked up with a radiant gaze. She smiled, revealing a few missing teeth.
"Are you the new teachers?"
The simple question tugged at Quyen's heart. She nodded gently, as the other children swarmed around them, chattering their greetings in mumbled, accented voices. Ngoc and Thanh were momentarily flustered, but they soon bent down to pat the children's heads, smiling in return. In that moment, something quietly held them there. The sense of bewilderment and doubt was swept away, replaced by a pang of sorrow mixed with affection. These children, despite their poverty and deprivation, were desperate to learn, longing for something brighter.
Quyen knew then that she could not leave. Neither could Thanh and Ngoc. No matter the difficulties ahead, no matter how dilapidated the school was, they had to stay—for the eyes and the smiles of these children.
Those memories, like a slow, persistent rain, had seeped into her mind, gentle yet enduring, finding their way into every hidden corner of her past. Years had passed, seasons had changed, but Quyen had never thought of leaving this place. Even when loneliness felt suffocating, on nights spent sleepless as the mountain wind shrieked through the door, even when it seemed she had no ties left to bind her—she stayed. Even after her elderly mother passed away, when there was no one left waiting for her to come home for the summer holidays, she did not leave.
It wasn't that she had no other choice. More than once, the school board had offered her a transfer to a school closer to the lowlands, a place with better facilities and a more stable salary, far from the years of clinging to this remote mountain outpost. But each time, she hesitated, then refused. Because this place, this old school with its corrugated tin roof and wooden walls that shuddered in the monsoon winds, was the home she had grown accustomed to. And here, in this frontier land, she had Ngoc and Thanh—the friends who had been with her since the day she first set foot in this place. They were not just colleagues; they were the only family she could lean on in this wide world.
A dog's sudden bark from the yard pulled Quyen back to the present. She glanced out and saw Thanh's figure on the veranda. He gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, his breath still clouded with the morning chill. In his hand was a bag of fresh vegetables, fragrant with the smell of damp earth. He set the bag down and smiled brightly, his voice full of excitement.
"Good, you're making porridge! I just made it back. Old Pao's son at the market even threw in some extra forest greens."
Quyen took the bag of vegetables and nodded with a smile. The greens were a vibrant, familiar green, with their distinctive wild, pungent scent. She quickly washed them and chopped them finely, ready to add to the porridge that was simmering on the stove. The flickering firelight illuminated Thanh's face, a face weathered by the sun and wind, but one that still held the same sincere, rustic quality as the day they first met.
Thanh stood beside her, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and continued slowly:
"Don't worry, I found some fresh lean meat to help Ngoc get her strength back. The only thing is… everything at the market is so expensive. We're always living so frugally…"
He trailed off, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Quyen understood without needing to ask. The life of a family of teachers in a remote posting was far from easy; every bit of their salary had to be carefully managed for the household, not to mention the new baby who needed care. She looked at Thanh, her heart filled with a mix of affection and empathy. They had walked together for so many years, had watched each other grow, and had tasted all of life's joys and sorrows. Between them was a bond so deep that words were often unnecessary.
She quietly stirred the porridge, listening to the crackle of the firewood, and felt a strange sense of peace. Though life was still hard, though the years passed, at least they still had each other.
That morning's breakfast was simple, yet steeped in the warmth of family. The three of them gathered around the pot of porridge, made from mountain rice cooked to a soft creaminess, blended with the fresh scent of wild greens and the simple sweetness of lean meat. Steam rose from the bowls, chasing away the last of the highland morning's chill. Baby Tien, after a fitful night, now slept soundly in his mother's arms, his chubby cheeks flushed a rosy pink. His lips were pursed as if dreaming of something sweet, his tiny hands unconsciously swatting at the air.
Outside, the morning sun began to filter through the cracks of the weathered wooden door. Faint beams of light stretched across the packed-earth floor, glinting off the old but clean ceramic bowls. It was a serene scene,