Thank You for Showing Me the Way Here.
She turned off the engine. Her wrinkled eyes, like streaks of scattered clouds, rested on a face speckled with time. Now, it was just her and him. Facing each other.
Amidst the mountains and forests. Birds spread their wings, soaring upward into the boundless sky, as if someone had just stirred a space that belonged only to them. Flocks were nesting.
Amidst the wilderness. A few flowers timidly bloomed, anticipating a new spring, while others hesitated, their buds still tightly closed, wary of winter’s lingering grasp.
At last, I’ve found you, in this desolate place. Her voice trembled. She bit her lip, fearing that years of bottled-up emotions might spill over.
He looked at her, saying nothing. A breeze rustled the leaves. Behind her lay a deep abyss, where a dense forest stretched endlessly, its green blending with the drifting mist, forming an illusion—like a black hole eager to consume her. Despair.
Forty-two years, eight months, and twenty-two days. She spoke, lifting her face to the sky, afraid that the deep hollows of her eyes could no longer hold back the underground river surging to the surface after all these years.
A few strands of silver hair fluttered, catching the golden sunlight like shimmering threads waiting to be woven into a fabric. Dusk fell. A lone bird sang.
He looked at her. A woman now past sixty, her hair pinned up—someone once told her that this style signified a married woman. The once-glossy black locks that had captivated hearts in the early days of their acquaintance were no more. And those early days weren’t in this eerie mountain wilderness but in a bustling Saigon, during the season of falling leaves.
Saigon before the flames of war engulfed it. The memory was carved into his soul. The Minh Khai high school girl, dressed in a flowing áo dài, had mesmerized the Petrus Ký schoolboy. Mischievous. Sneaking glances at a naïve beauty.
It was the season of blooming flamboyant trees. A smile that outshone even the crimson blossoms etched an unforgettable feeling into the young student’s heart. Spellbound. A tumble from a tree branch.
Infatuated, he waited under the shade of trees. School’s out. He trailed behind her, stealing glances, half-curious, half-adoring.
Perhaps a wandering musician had witnessed their story. Inspired. Immortalized it in song—tales of fate and misfortune.
A Minh Khai girl from a well-off, disciplined family, raised under the rigid principles of a high-ranking cadre.
In love.
A Petrus Ký schoolboy from a modest background, raised with a different set of values. Handsome enough to make girls sigh at a mere glance. Yet, neither intellect nor looks could sway parental judgment.
One truth remained: their love was forbidden the day he donned the uniform of a Republic soldier.
My parents said, "A soldier might rise in ranks, but one day, you’ll be left holding his lifeless body in grief."
The Petrus Ký boy, now a soldier, heard those tearful words one summer night when he was granted leave to visit home. A park bench bore witness to two shadows stretched long under streetlights.
She asked him—after a moment of sorrowful silence—"Do you smell the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine?"
He gazed into her eyes, drowning in love. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the fragrance. Smiling.
…She asked, and asked again. Then fell silent. Behind his smile.
She said, "Take me away with you." Her eyes drifted toward the boundless night sky, as Saigon’s cool air carried the scattered footsteps of late-night wanderers along lamp-lit boulevards.
The soldier took his love for a ride on his old bicycle, her áo dài fluttering behind the handlebars.
Every time, they stopped at the end of the road, letting the river’s breeze wash over their souls. Enchanted.
Her gaze followed the trees, lined neatly like silent spectators to lovers’ whispers.
Her gaze followed the water, rippling playfully to the shore, as if teasing those in love.
On the way back, he said, "Where can we go? A soldier’s life belongs to war. A soldier has no home."
Silence.
He turned to look at her—youthful, radiant, her fair skin as pure as newly blossomed plum flowers, her delicate brows drawn as if by an artist’s brush, eyes filled with dreams. Fragile.
…
"I will marry someone else, won’t I?" She tightened her embrace. Her youthful chest, full of life, couldn’t suppress the aching in her heart. Why must it be this way? His silence was her answer. She felt dampness on his back.
"Why did you choose the battlefield?" She clung to him even tighter. The only response was the wind rushing past as the bicycle’s wheels spun faster, climbing a gentle slope. His back, drenched. Sweat and tears.
"I don’t want to go home yet." She let go. The bicycle halted by the roadside. The golden glow of year-end streetlights felt neither warm nor comforting, only lonely—like a cruel reminder that some loves were never meant to be.
…
She had once asked, "When will you return?"
He had promised, "One morning soon."
She looked at him now, her eyes unable to contain the flood. Everything had burst forth with ruthless intensity.
Was this his "morning soon"? After all these years? He remained silent as she leaned into him, pouring out her soul. Longing, desire, and suppressed anguish after one night of passion. Their first and last.
Forty-two years, eight months, and twenty-two days.
That long, and he never returned. Only their love had grown, nurtured by a fleeting moment. A life had formed amidst the fires of war.
That long, and he had vanished without a trace.
Silence.
The only reply was the sorrowful cries of birds. She felt the abyss behind her closing in. Too much had changed in all that time.
Her only keepsake was the life they had created—a son, born amidst smoke and fire. Time burned like a cigarette, everything vanishing under the weight on her shoulders. Her son had a family of his own now, having fought his way through hardships, understanding that only knowledge could break the cycle of poverty.
The older her son grew, the more she saw the Petrus Ký boy in him. Haunting. That mischievous gaze, emerging from a past she thought had long faded.
A new life had begun, yet her soul remained trapped in the corridors of the past, even as she had children and grandchildren calling her "Grandmother."
It all felt like a dream.
Until she heard his voice from long ago echoing back.
"You said you’d return one morning soon."
A phone call from a woman claiming to be a spirit medium. A message from someone lost in the mountains and forests. A final farewell.
The grass embraced half her body. She lay on her side. The underground river had drained every last ounce of strength.
Footsteps rustled the leaves.
A trembling voice. A question.
"Who are you, crying at my husband’s grave?"
It all felt like a dream.
Shattered.
The abyss behind her seemed to close in.
