Autumn was so cold it felt as if the mercury in the thermometer might freeze.I sat by the Red River, watching the water drift silently beneath the pale sunset. The surface shimmered faintly, as though weary after a long day — quietly carrying a trace of lingering sorrow.
I often came here — to the place where two children once met for the first time, too naïve to understand how cruel life could be.
My name is Văn Thị Mai An — an unremarkable name for an unremarkable life.I live with my mother in a small rented room at the end of a damp alley, its tin roof leaking whenever it rains.
By day, the place is so still I can hear the clock ticking; by night, it vibrates with laughter and drunken shouts from the tavern down the street.Sometimes I wonder how long a person can live surrounded by both noise and loneliness at once.
My mother, Lưu Huỳnh Kim Mỹ, works at a nightclub near Trúc Bạch Lake.She usually comes home just before dawn, her body steeped in the suffocating mix of alcohol and cheap perfume.Some nights I lie awake, listening to the rhythm of her heels — click, click, click — each sound a dull thud against my chest.
She walks in, removes her earrings, her necklace, then each layer of makeup — until her eyes turn empty.
People say beautiful women are destined to suffer.I don't know if that's true.All I know is that my mother is beautiful, but never gentle.She rarely talks to me, and when she does, her words cut cold:
"Why are you standing there? Clean up. Don't look at me.""If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be living like this."
When I hear those words, I just lower my head.I no longer feel pain — only exhaustion, from living in a house with no warmth, only cigarette smoke and the fading scent of lipstick.
Once, I asked her, "Who is my father, Mom?"
She paused mid-brush, her hand stilling for a moment before a faint smile curved her lips.
"You don't need to know."
I fell silent.That answer followed me through the years — an open wound that never healed.
I grew up through nights without her, beneath the sound of rain on the tin roof, surrounded by the stale scent of poverty and solitude.People say children grow used to such things — but no one ever gets used to being forgotten.
I used to wish, just once, that she would hold me and tell me I was still her child.But that never happened.
She once told me, voice hoarse after a long night:
"If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be suffering like this."
I was thirteen.I didn't cry.I only lowered my head and washed the dishes, letting the sound of running water drown out her voice — and the sharp ache inside my chest.
Deep down, I knew.I wasn't the child she wanted.I was a mistake, a consequence — a life never meant to be welcomed.
Autumn in Hanoi, 1996.The air by West Lake was so cold it felt as if the wind could slice through skin.I pulled my hands into my sleeves and walked slowly along the lakeside road.
The old sweater could barely keep me warm, but I was used to it.My breath turned white in the air — fading as quickly as promises no one ever kept.
Mother sent me out to buy some food, handing me a wrinkled bill smudged with lipstick.I held it tightly, afraid it might slip away — like everything else in my life.
The street was quiet, lit only by dim lamps reflecting on puddles of rainwater.
A boy stood by an electric pole, holding a tin can. A few coins glimmered faintly inside.His head hung low, dark hair falling over half his face.I was about to pass when his eyes met mine — and my heart tightened.
There was something cold and deep in that gaze, yet fragile — almost frightened.A heartbeat later, the bill was gone from my hand.
I looked up just in time to see his thin figure running away.The wind howled louder, lashing against my face.Without knowing why, I ran after him — as if trying to hold onto something I couldn't yet name.
The road was slick.I slipped, fell — my knee scraping against the ground, hands covered in dirt.The money was gone.
I wanted to cry, but my throat locked tight.
Then he stopped.
That small figure stood still for a long moment, then turned around.Our eyes met again — confused, guilty — and he walked back toward me, hand trembling as he held out the crumpled bill.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I was too hungry."
His voice was rough, as if unused for a long time.I said nothing, just took a steamed bun from my plastic bag and placed it in his hand.
"Eat."
He looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes, glistening faintly in the cold air.For a brief second, I saw his face — thin, pale, yet impossible to hate.
The wind blew, rustling the fallen leaves through the mist.He stood there for a long time, holding the bun.
"Thank you," he murmured.
I nodded slightly and turned away.My footsteps faded into the wind, but my heart beat with a strange, unfamiliar rhythm.
I didn't know his name, nor did I think we would ever meet again.But in that cold autumn of Hanoi, wrapped in mist and rain, someone had looked at me — not with disdain, but with eyes that felt achingly sincere.
That night, when I came home, my heart was still racing.The room was cold. My mother was still gone.But for the first time in my life, I didn't feel completely alone.
End of Chapter 1.