51°F.

Raining.

Hieu Laurent- I have started moving to the countryside where I was born, where I witnessed the love of my father and mother. But now it is only my mother and I here, this place is so different that I don't recognize it anymore, only a few shops on Franklin Street are still there but they are starting to get old. The smell of lavender fields still lingers in my mind somewhere, an old memory smell.

I don't like the idea of ​​moving, but my mother is willing. She has sacrificed a lot for me. I love her very much. Although it's not easy to leave my friends, because I have to leave behind memories, but for my mother I'm willing. The old place is too painful for my mother and me. I don't know if my friend still remembers how to contact me. I hope she's well without me.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

I’m not sure how much time had passed. Snow began to fall softly—like old snowflakes from a distant land welcoming back a long-lost child.

The sky darkened. My mother and I sat in silence, lost in thoughts about the future—about how we’d manage without the pillar of our family.

Streetlights cast a gentle amber glow along the road leading to my grandmother’s house. The light wasn’t warm enough to fend off the cold, but it wrapped around me gently, as if trying to comfort me in this bone-chilling season.

The darker it got, the colder the wind became. And just as we began descending the hill, I saw her house tucked into the corner of the road. From up here, it looked so small.

Small—but it had raised my mother. Small—but it was full of love, of family, of quiet resilience.

I just hope it still holds the warmth it once did—

more than any city ever could.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

When we arrived at my grandmother’s house, my mother seemed hesitant.

Just as she was about to knock on the door, I asked her,

“Mom, why aren’t you knocking?”

She replied, her voice soft,

“I don’t know, Hieu… I’m scared.”

I didn’t ask any more. I knew she was afraid of my grandmother—though I never quite understood why.

So we stood there, letting the snow and time quietly fall over us. The snowfall grew thicker.

And then, my grandmother opened the door.

My mother was caught off guard. She stammered, speaking in a voice so small, like a child who had done something wrong.

“Mom.”

My grandmother looked surprised—just slightly—then her expression settled into something calm.

Her eyes passed over me, distant at first glance, but behind that quiet gaze, I caught a glimpse of longing.

She spoke to both of us.

“Come in, the two of you,”

her voice barely warmer than the wind.

as if forgiveness had not arrived yet.

...----------------...

Continue. ——>

My mother and I stepped into my grandmother’s house. The place hadn’t changed much—still filled with that warm scent of aged wood, a small space, but overflowing with love.

We entered the living room and sat down. I glanced around, almost like I was searching for some dusty old memory tucked away on a shelf—among the glass jars, the neatly arranged trinkets, the faded photographs of my mother as a child and as a young woman.

And then it hit me—there were no photos of my grandmother as an adult. Not a single one. That thought lingered in my mind just long enough for her to enter the room, carrying two cups of warm chrysanthemum tea. The air seemed to shift—the cold that had pierced through our coats outside began to melt into the soft warmth of that tea.

She looked at my mother, her voice firm but filled with affection:

— “Lan Mai, are you cold? I’ve already prepared your room.”

Then she turned to me, her gaze steady but tender:

— “Hiếu, you’ve grown so much. I almost forgot I had a grandchild—my only one. I bet you’ve forgotten me too, haven’t you?”

I replied immediately, with a teasing smile:

— “Even if I grew up in the city, I’ve always known I had the most wonderful grandmother in the world.”

She gave me a gentle smile, the kind that warms your chest, and said softly:

— “Well then, I’ve prepared your room. You can go on up.”

⸻

A little while later, I climbed the stairs. As I wandered down the hallway, something about the room in front of me surprised me. It was cozy—bathed in a soft orange-yellow hue. The bed was embroidered with delicate orchid patterns. On the left, a window opened out toward a wall of climbing vines swaying gently outside.

I wondered—could this have been my mother’s childhood room?

Looking down from the top of the stairs, I saw my mother and grandmother talking. Their faces carried a quiet tenderness, tinged with sorrow. Like two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.

I overheard something—my mother was moving in with my grandmother. I could sense the surprise in my grandmother’s voice as she asked about my father. My mother paused for a moment, then replied:

— “I’m going to leave Hiếu here with us. He won’t find out.”

I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. Maybe I’d grown used to things like this. It wasn’t that I didn’t care—I truly loved her. That was the reason we were here.

Then mother spoke of my grandfather. I noticed a shimmer in my grandmother’s eyes. So he had passed away recently. My mother began to cry, tears falling quietly. I stood there, not knowing what to do—just watching.

I had grown used to her crying. Not because I didn’t care. But because I had seen it too often. That’s why I loved her even more.

I walked back to the room and lay down on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Fatigue from the long journey pulled me under. Slowly. I drifted off.

And so began the quiet prelude… to a great change.

I started helping my grandmother run the family’s bakery, looking after customers and selling fresh loaves every day. Life drifted by calmly — one quiet day after another.

When I entered high school, I began attending the only school in town.

After classes, I’d help my grandmother at the shop, talking with regular customers. Every day felt like a slow breath, allowing me to fully soak in the rhythm of this place.

Then came a Monday morning, when the sun was still lazily tucked behind a blanket of mist and mountains, yet the town was already awake and bustling. In that hazy moment, I suddenly remembered — this was my first day of high school in this remote countryside.

I stood waiting for the bus, a school I could hardly picture in my head. As the bus pulled in, people gave me puzzled glances — a city kid in a rural town? Their eyes brimmed with questions: “Why would someone from the city come all the way out here?”

Only I truly knew why.

The bus rolled past the bakery, the church, and down toward the harbor.

When I stepped off at the school, I was taken aback. Instead of the run-down campus I had expected, I found a beautiful, modern building — in some ways, it felt more upscale than my old city school.

This place felt like a dream. As the bell rang, upperclassmen guided me and a few other newcomers through the campus. Among them was an Asian girl — a rare sight in this quiet town. She had brown hair, soft coral-pink lipstick, and a star-shaped earring that gave her a bold, captivating flair.

The guides spoke of classrooms and the old clock tower, where a ghostly figure of a schoolgirl was said to glide across its corridors at midnight.

Then, she spoke aloud — in Vietnamese:

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

I was shocked. Never had I expected to find another Vietnamese person in such a secluded place. I smiled and replied softly,

“Yeah, it really is strange.”

Her eyes widened as she turned to me.

“Wait — you speak Vietnamese too? But you have blue eyes, fair skin…?”

I met her gaze and said calmly,

“Yeah… I’m mixed.”

The upperclassmen fell silent, staring at us as if we spoke a language they didn’t understand. But in that moment, she and I felt an unexpected thread — a quiet, rare connection in this remote town.

After the tour, we promised to meet up in the cafeteria for a chat. She shared that she had also moved here just a month ago, slightly earlier than me. We exchanged contact information, and she invited me to visit her family’s café sometime.

I gladly accepted. After school, we found ourselves sharing a table.

That evening, when I came home, my grandmother and mother asked how my first day had gone. I smiled, unable to contain the warmth bubbling inside:

“It was wonderful, truly wonderful.”

That night, back in my room, I felt a strange, quiet warmth settle in my chest. The phone in my hand felt almost magnetic.

I opened our chat and started talking to her.

The conversation stretched on — from school and the café, to favorite songs, forgotten dreams, and the sting of leaving a big city behind.

We texted until late into the night, sharing pieces of ourselves as if two strangers had suddenly found a safe harbor.

As the first light of dawn crept through my window and I smiled down at the screen, I felt it clearly: tomorrow would be a very different day.