That day, I went to the market as usual — buying vegetables, fish, and stopping by the fried cake stall to get some for Thiên Trang. She loved those little cakes. Every time she ate, she'd get red bean filling all over her cheeks, then turn to me and laugh.
I passed by the construction site where Nhật Nam worked. He was lifting bricks, his shirt drenched in sweat, but when he saw me, he still smiled — that gentle, quiet smile that could calm an entire storm.
I lifted the bag of cakes. He pointed toward me, gesturing: "Wait a second."
I nodded. And somehow, my heart stilled. No one knew — just one smile from Nhật Nam was enough to make every pain in me fall silent.
That afternoon, I went home early. The sky was gray, heavy clouds rolling in. Hanoi's summer rain came without warning — like someone's sudden burst of anger.
Then came the screech of tires, the crash of metal, shouts echoing down the street.
I froze — then ran.
Through the sheets of rain, I saw Thiên Trang lying on the wet road, her white dress soaked in blood. A truck had stopped not far away. The driver's face was pale, the whole world suddenly holding its breath.
I threw myself forward, cradling her trembling body. "Trang! Trang, open your eyes. It's me, your sister!"
Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips moved — her voice so faint I had to press close to hear it. "Chị An… the cakes… I got them…"
I bit my lip until it bled. Rain mixed with tears, salt burning my tongue. "I'm here, I'm right here. Don't sleep, okay? Please don't."
They say when a life leaves this world, a strange wind passes by. That moment, the wind rose — scattering the bag of cakes from my hand into the gutter, carrying it away, out of sight.
That night, Nhật Nam knelt beside his sister's still body, silent. I stood next to him, my heart being crushed from the inside.
The yellow light from the clinic flickered across his pale face. After a long while, he whispered, voice breaking, "Trang said she wanted to learn sewing… said she'd make you a dress someday, chị An."
I pressed my lips tight, forcing back the sob. Every word of comfort felt cruel.
Then he lowered his head, fingers trembling as they held his sister's hand. "I promised I'd protect her. And I couldn't even keep that."
I sank down beside him, gripping his arm. I didn't know where the courage came from, but I whispered, "Nhật Nam, you still have me. I'll never leave you, okay? So don't you leave me either."
He lifted his eyes, tears shining. His smile twisted — fragile, tender. "Yeah… I know."
But in that smile, something died forever.
After the funeral, Nhật Nam changed. He worked harder than ever, barely rested, spoke little, smiled less. Every evening, he'd stand by West Lake, silent, staring at the fading light.
I wanted to go to him so many times, but didn't dare. My own pain was nothing compared to his.
Only one thing had changed completely — the sunlight had vanished from his eyes. And I had never been so afraid of the dark.
That night, it rained again. Raindrops hit the old tin roof like bullets striking memory. The house I stayed in still glowed faintly, that yellow light — the color of shame and guilt.
I ran out barefoot, the ground cold and muddy beneath me. The thin blanket clung around my body like the last thread keeping me alive.
Behind me came the man's shouting, the crash of bottles, the slam of the door — a nightmare made real.
The rain was ice. I ran like a madwoman, breath burning, throat dry. Finger-shaped bruises marked my neck where he had strangled me, my dress torn, skin covered in purple marks.
Every step hurt — like knives driving into flesh. I didn't know where I was running, only that I had to get away. Away from that place — where my mother still sat smiling, counting money, her eyes colder than death.
The rain grew heavier. The streets blurred. Streetlights flickered like they were dying. Hanoi that night was colder than I'd ever felt — as if the whole city was mourning someone.
And through that downpour, I saw him. Nhật Nam, walking from the end of the narrow alley, a dark oil-stained bag slung over his shoulder — probably just off a night shift. The yellow light fell on his tired, thin frame.
When his eyes met mine, time stopped.
I knew how pathetic I must have looked — hair tangled, feet muddy, body trembling, clothes half-torn, bruises everywhere. Standing there in the rain, I was nothing but a broken thing with nowhere left to go.
But his eyes held no shock, no questions. Only one thing — pain. The kind of pain that swallows a person whole and leaves only silence.
He said nothing. Not a word. Just looked at me — and in that look, the world shattered.
I stood frozen, breath caught in my throat. Rain and tears mixed on my face. When only a few steps separated us, he stopped, eyes still on me — wet, trembling.
He took off his soaked jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. The scent of rain, sweat, oil, and him — achingly familiar.
And in that moment, I realized — sometimes, warmth doesn't save you. It just keeps you alive long enough to remember what it feels like to be human.
End of Chapter 12