"Do you often go down by the river?" I asked as we left the market together.
"Sometimes. When my father's drunk, I go there to hide. What about you?"
I pressed my lips together and nodded. "Me too. It's quiet there, the wind's cool, not many people."
So we walked side by side along the narrow dirt path leading to the Red River. Morning light shimmered on the pale silver water. Small boats lay still, only the soft creak of oars brushing the ripples broke the silence.
The damp smell of mud and dry grass filled the air, oddly comforting.
He sat down, arms around his knees, eyes fixed on the horizon."One day, I want to be a builder," he said. "Have a house, some money, take care of my little sister. Not much — just enough."
I looked at his face in profile — sunburned skin, cracked lips."And your dream?" he asked.
I laughed, a lonely sound that disappeared into the wind."A dream? I don't know. Maybe just for my mother to stop hating me."
He turned to me, his eyes full of something quiet and sad — not pity, but understanding. The kind that only children raised in shouting and silence can recognize in each other.
"She really doesn't love you?"
"I don't think so. Maybe because I look too much like her, she hates me for it."
He didn't reply. Just picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river. It made a small splash, then vanished."I take after my father," he murmured. "He can't stand to see me either."
We both laughed — the kind of laughter that catches in your throat. I felt a sting in my chest, as if I'd swallowed the bitter heat of stale liquor.
After a while, he turned to me and said softly, "If life ever gets too hard, come find me. Wherever I am, I'll come to you."
I looked at him — the morning sun filtered through the trees, lighting up the fading bruise on his cheek. His eyes, though, were clear and bright, untouched by the dirt of the world.
I didn't know what to say. I just nodded.
"Promise me," he said, with that innocent seriousness only the young can have.
"I promise," I whispered.
The autumn wind carried dry leaves across the water.If I had known that promise would follow me all my life, I might not have smiled so easily that morning — like a scene from an old film, frozen at the most beautiful frame.
I don't know how long we sat there. The sun climbed higher, mist slowly faded, leaving a faint golden glow over the river. Boats began to stir, engines sputtering in the distance, blending into the rhythmic sound of water against the shore.
He stayed beside me, wordless. But the silence was warm — the rare warmth two lonely children could give each other.
The wind carried the scent of silt and early morning smoke. I looked up just in time to see a yellow leaf break free from its branch, hover in the air, then fall gently onto the water. The current carried it away, toward the far end of the river, where the sun had just begun to rise red.
I watched it for a long time, not knowing why my chest felt tight.A faint premonition crept into me — that someday, like that leaf, we too would drift apart, lost in the vast, indifferent heart of Hanoi.
In the years that followed, we still met sometimes — never planned, just by chance. On the same streets, amid the market stalls, we'd find each other again, and somehow always end up walking toward the river.
Hanoi in the late nineties wasn't as noisy as it is now. The streets were rough, full of potholes. There were more bicycles than motorbikes.People sold bread from bamboo baskets, and every morning, the cry of "Hot sticky rice!" echoed through the narrow alleys.
Once, we ran off to Đồng Xuân Market, just to watch the rolls of colored fabric fluttering in the wind. Nam stood there looking up, his eyes shining like he was staring at another world — clean, bright, untouched by the smell of alcohol or the sound of anger.
"One day, I'll buy you a piece of blue fabric," he said.
"What for?"
"To make you a dress. That color suits you."
I laughed — a clear, childish laugh untouched by dust."Blue looks like the sky," I said. "Soft and endless."
"Yeah," he smiled. "Like your eyes."
I turned away, pretending not to hear.But after that day, I often found excuses to go back to the market — just to look at that roll of blue fabric, until the sellers packed up and left.
End of Chapter 6.