The "Tây Hồ New City" project slogged through the monsoon. Văn grew adept at material coordination, his diligence, responsibility, and crisis leadership earning him the team's respect. Hải relied on him increasingly, delegating key tasks. Lê sang his praises: "Kid's solid! Sharp mind! Tough worker! Good stock!"
Yet, a heavy stone weighed on Văn's heart – his mother's health. The relentless damp worsened her chronic bronchitis. Coughs racked her day and night, sometimes leaving her gasping, sleepless. Văn watched, helpless. His earnings vanished into medicine, offering diminishing relief. Hospitalization was advised, but the cost was a mountain he couldn't climb. He urged Mai to care for her, while he worked himself ragged, desperate for more money. This burden, an invisible chain, dimmed even his small triumphs.
One evening, Văn dragged himself back to the site office container after clearing a steel delivery. Fading light through grimy windows cast patterns on the crude desk. His phone buzzed – the screen lit up with a familiar name: Linh.
His heart stirred faintly, like a pebble dropped in still water. He took a breath, answered.
"Văn? Class time? Can you… make it tonight?" Linh's voice was clear, gentle, carrying a hint of unspoken hope, a breeze across his weariness.
The sound instantly transported him to the night school classroom. He vividly recalled their first meeting. Basic Accounting, first class. He'd rushed in late, sweaty, in grease-stained work clothes, slinking into a corner seat. He looked up – and saw her. Front row. Clean white dress, ponytail. Sitting straight, profile soft, absorbed in the lecture, head bent over notes revealing a pale neck. Light from the window haloed her, setting her apart from the drab room. Something shifted in him then – a quiet collision, a new, unfamiliar flutter. But it was quickly drowned by shame. She was pristine, luminous, a hothouse bloom. He was grime-streaked, clawing his way from the mud.
He learned her name: Nguyễn Thị Linh. Her father was a schoolteacher; her life, modest but stable. She'd finished high school, worked as a clerk in a small trading firm, studying for her accounting certificate to climb higher. The gap between their worlds felt like a chasm.
Once, after a site emergency left him coated in mud, he'd dashed to class unwashed. Snickers rose from well-dressed classmates, eyes dripping scorn. Văn burned with humiliation. Then Linh walked over, handed him wet wipes and water. "Here, you've got mud… on your face." Her eyes held no mockery, only quiet concern. Warmth flooded him, mixed with a sharper ache. Her kindness only highlighted the distance. How could he, without decent clothes, without prospects, dare to hope for someone like her? He buried the fragile spark of feeling deep, guarding it like a secret.
Now, hearing her voice, Văn felt a tangle of emotions. He longed to see her – even just to sit in the back, watch her profile, hear her discuss problems. But he glanced outside: threatening sky. He saw the stack of reports, the unfinished handover notes. A critical material delivery awaited inspection tonight. Reality crashed down. He sighed, voice weary and apologetic. "Linh… sorry. Site's crazy today. Rain… probably can't make it. Could you… tell the teacher?"
A pause. Disappointment tinged her reply. "Oh… okay. Rest then. Don't push too hard. Your mom… any better?"
"Same. Coughing bad." His voice dropped. His mother's suffering was his deepest wound, his powerlessness.
"Ah… try not to worry. Oh," her tone brightened slightly, "that cost analysis case from last class? I finished my notes. Bring them tomorrow?"
"Yes! Thank you, Linh!" Warmth spread through him. Her quiet care was precious. He knew her feelings. She always covered for him, reminded him of assignments, offered kindness when he was spent. It was a candle in his dark, warming yet deepening his sense of unworthiness. He felt trapped in the mud – debt, his mother's illness, an uncertain future. What right did he have to dream of her? Fear choked him – fear of failing her, of dragging her down.
"Don't mention it. Be safe." Linh hung up.
Văn set the phone down, guilt and helplessness washing over him. He'd missed too many classes. Each refusal felt like a stone in his chest. He shook his head, forced focus onto the reports. Dim light. Rain drummed the metal roof, a monotonous thud mirroring his mood.
The container door creaked open. Cold, damp air rushed in. Hải entered with someone.
"Văn! Still grinding? Look who's here!" Hải's voice held unusual excitement.
Văn looked up. The figure behind Hải – deep grey jacket, worn canvas bag – froze him. His pen clattered to the desk.
"Mr… Mr. Chen?!" Văn shot up, voice trembling. Unbelievable! Chen Qiming! The man who'd reached into his abyss, offered a hand, lit a path!
Chen stood calm as ever, a faint smile on his lips, gaze steady and warm. He assessed Văn: darker skin, leaner frame, eyes steadier, sharper, the old uncertainty replaced by quiet confidence. Mud spattered his work clothes, but he seemed honed, like a blade emerging from the forge.
"Văn. Been a while." Chen nodded, voice unchanged.
"Mr. Chen! You… you're here?!" Văn stammered, scrambling for a cleaner chair. "Sit! Rain… you didn't get soaked?"
"Fine. Just arrived." Chen sat, scanning the sparse container. "Seems you're holding up? Kim Hải spoke well of you."
Văn learned Chen was in Hanoi at Kim Hải's invitation, a special advisor for "Tây Hồ New City." He'd asked about Văn immediately upon arrival.
"Mr. Chen, I… I…" Words jammed in his throat. Gratitude, updates, his mother… all condensed into: "I… haven't disappointed you?"
Chen met his anxious, hopeful gaze and smiled. "Disappointed? Far from it. Exceeded expectations. Grab driver to warehouse assistant to project coordinator – solid steps. Heard about your dead stock find, the tender observation. Hải just praised your storm response. Good. Very good."
Chen's approval made Văn's eyes prickle. It meant more than Kim Hải's praise. It felt like validation for every hard-won step.
"How long… will you stay?" Văn asked.
"A week or two. Advising the project. And," Chen added, "seeing you."
Joy surged in Văn. He had so much to say, to ask… even about Linh, about the hesitant, ashamed flutter in his chest. But he held back.
Hải tactfully excused himself. "Mr. Chen, Văn, catch up. I'll arrange dinner." He left.
Alone in the container, the rain seemed quieter.
"Mr. Chen, I…" Văn started eagerly.
"Later." Chen waved a hand, eyes on the open night school textbook on Văn's desk. "Still studying? What subjects?"
"Yes! Finishing Basic Accounting and Management." Văn answered quickly, Linh's notes flashing in his mind. "Though… it's tough, I'll stick with it!"
"Good." Chen approved. "Knowledge is wings. Experience alone isn't enough; theory lifts you higher." He picked up the book. "Stuck on anything? I'm here a few days."
Relief washed over Văn. An anchor. He pulled out his notebook, dense with questions: precise material costing methods, optimizing inventory turnover, dynamic adjustment of material plans to project schedules, supplier negotiation tactics… even tricky accounting problems Linh's notes had helped him grasp.
Chen listened patiently, probing, guiding Văn's own thoughts. Then, drawing on deep experience and theory, he explained each point in simple, profound terms. He didn't just give answers; he revealed the logic, the principles. Light bulbs flashed in Văn's mind.
"Văn, remember," Chen said earnestly, "your coordination role is about 'balance.' Balance demand and supply. Balance cost and efficiency. Balance plan and change. Use data. Use processes. Use systems. Learn to spot the critical point in chaos, make the best call under pressure. This site," he gestured outside, "is your best business school."
Văn devoured every word, scribbling notes. Chen's insights were beacons.
"Also," Chen shifted, his gaze seeming to brush Văn's phone (still warm from Linh's call), "your mother? Medicine costs still tight?"
Văn's heart sank. Chen remembered. He looked down. "Still coughing badly… medicine… a heavy burden." His mother's illness and the bittersweet ache Linh stirred tangled together, deepening his gloom.
Chen was silent for a moment. He pulled an envelope from his bag, placed it on the desk. "Here. For emergencies. Your mother's health comes first."
Văn stared at the thick envelope, recoiling as if burned. "Mr. Chen! No! I can't! You've done too much! I still owe you…!" The ten million dong debt burned with shame. He couldn't appear weaker, especially after Linh's call left him raw.
Chen looked at him, eyes deep and understanding. "Văn, money is a tool, not a chain. I lent to you, investing in your future. Seeing your growth, that investment pays off. This isn't a gift. Consider it a medical loan, deducted from your pay later. Or," he offered, "an investment in your future 'enterprise'? Deal?"
Văn was stunned. He met Chen's calm, trusting gaze. That trust was a surge of strength, banishing the shame-induced retreat. He took the envelope, solemnly. "Mr. Chen… Thank you! It's… a loan! I'll repay it fast! I… won't let you down!" He vowed silently: I will earn this trust. I will stand tall before Linh.
"Good." Chen smiled, satisfied. "I believe you."
Outside, the rain eased. Sunset broke through clouds, gilding the muddy site, spilling into the humble container. Văn felt the crushing weight in his chest lighten slightly. Chen's return brought not just knowledge and funds, but immense confidence and power. His life felt poised on another pivotal edge. And Nguyễn Thị Linh, and the complex feelings she stirred, seemed less distant in this new light. He found fresh courage to face the future, including the flicker in his heart.