Ep-1* Lavender Season

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.

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Continue. ——>

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