In the morning, I still woke up early, washed my face, brushed my hair, and looked into the mirror. The reflection stared back—swollen eyes, dark circles—and I could only smile. "You're fine, Khach. Mai An is fine."
I put on my old white dress, clean enough to look decent, grabbed a few buns, and headed to Nhat Nam's house.
As soon as Thien Trang saw me, she squealed and pulled my hand. "Chi An's here! Today I'm learning how to cook sweet-and-sour soup!"
Her voice was so pure, so innocent that it almost made me cry. I smiled, patted her head, and went into the kitchen. The scent of fried shallots filled the air, the water simmered softly. I stirred gently, trying to hide the sting from the bruises on my back. Every movement burned.
Nhat Nam came in from outside, holding a few newspapers. He looked at me, a trace of worry in his eyes. "Why are you limping? Fell again?"
I smiled. "Yeah, slipped while cleaning. I'm clumsy, aren't I?"
He seemed about to say something but didn't. "Be more careful, okay?"
I nodded, smiling, and glanced toward the yard. Sunlight streamed through the doorway, resting warm and gentle on my shoulder—so completely opposite from the darkness I had just come from.
And I thought: maybe people really can exist between two worlds.One filled with light, laughter, and the quiet kindness of Nhat Nam and Thien Trang.The other, mud and filth and the stench of shame.And I was nothing more than the fragile line between the two.
That noon, while Thien Trang took her nap, Nhat Nam and I sat outside on the porch. The wind drifted softly, and he hummed a tune he hadn't finished writing. His voice was warm, a little sad, yet it soothed me.
"Nam," I asked, "do you believe in purity?"He squinted up at me, smiling. "I do. Why ask?"
I gave a faint laugh. "No reason. I just wonder… if one day someone lost their purity, would you hate them?"
Nhat Nam was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Because I've never loved anyone just for being pure."
I looked at him, lips trembling, wanting to say something but couldn't.
A breeze passed, and a few strands of my hair brushed lightly against his shoulder. He didn't move.Just that brief moment—and my heart ached, both happy and hopeless at once.
That night, when I came home, Mother was waiting in the dark. She threw a red dress at me, smiling her cruel smile. "Tonight pays double. Wear this—it's pretty."
I looked at the dress, then at her. And suddenly, I hated myself—for not having the strength to resist anymore.
I put it on as if wearing a sentence.
And as the door closed behind me, I remembered Nhat Nam's words: "I've never loved anyone just for being pure."
I clenched my fists, tears spilling down. Just that one sentence made me want to live—if only for one more day.
But life was never as kind as the fairy tales we used to tell Thien Trang every summer afternoon.I still remember that sunny day—Hanoi burning like coal. We sat under the tree in front of his house. Red almond fruits fell, tapping softly at our feet.
Thien Trang rested her head on my lap, eyes glistening as she asked, "Chi An, are princesses in fairy tales real?"
I laughed, touching a dry blade of grass to her nose. "I don't know. Maybe they are—but only somewhere no one's ever been."
Nhat Nam was sawing a piece of wood nearby. He paused, looked at us, and said gently, "Princesses probably do exist. But not everyone gets to be the prince who protects them."
I turned to look at him, wanting to say something, but instead I just lowered my eyes and brushed a dry leaf from Thien Trang's hair.
In the golden sunlight, the two siblings laughed, while I stayed silent—partly because I was weak, and partly because I already knew: there were no fairy tales written for people like us.
End of Chapter 11