Of course. Here is the English translation of the provided chapter, rendered in a literary style to preserve the mood and nuance of the original text.
Chapter 2: On The Desolate Highlands
The day had just broken, and delicate wisps of mist still clung to the overlapping mountain ranges, stretching to where the horizon disappeared. The faint light of dawn crept through the veil of fog, painting the hillsides in a pale rosy hue, as if the land and sky were still drowsy, not yet ready to awaken. Quyên turned over, her eyes opening earlier than usual. She had barely slept a wink last night—the interrupted cries of little Tiên, the anxious tossing of Ngọc, and the soft clatter of Thanh's footsteps as he busied himself by the stove to boil warm water, all wove together into an incomplete melody that had echoed in her mind throughout the long night.
She sat up quietly and pulled the thin blanket away, feeling the sharp chill of the highland morning seep into her skin. With light steps, she left the simple wooden bed and moved toward the veranda. The air outside was heavy with the scent of wild grass and trees, mingled with the earthy fragrance of damp soil left from the light rain of the previous night. She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs, as if to chase away the lingering fatigue. Before her, the towering cliffs glowed with the pale pink of the newly risen sun, but swathes of mist still clung stubbornly to the hillsides, casting a dreamlike, half-real beauty upon the landscape, like an unfinished ink wash painting.
Quyên touched her cheek, noticing the cold still settled on her skin. The nights in the highlands were always harsh, chilling one to the bone, even if the days were sometimes scorching and dry. She smiled faintly, a fleeting smile, as if telling herself she had grown accustomed to this cold, accustomed to waking in the crisp air to the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in the wooden door. But deep down, she knew something was no longer the same. A vague, indefinable feeling, like an undercurrent silently rising, made her heart sink for reasons she could not name.
She gently closed the wooden door and turned back inside the small house. The weak light from an oil lamp hanging on the wall cast flickering shadows, illuminating the simple room. Ngọc was still sitting there, holding little Tiên, softly humming a folk lullaby she often sang during the long nights. Tiên, though fast asleep, would occasionally stir, his little lips puckered as if dreaming of something sweet. Thanh, who must have woken early, was no longer in the house. Quyên guessed he had gone down to the market below the pass to buy some fresh food, as was his habit on weekend mornings.
Quyên's gaze swept across the room: the jars of millet stacked neatly in a corner, the cooking rack with a few half-burnt pieces of wood, the simple bamboo cradle placed against the wooden wall, and the old, worn blanket Ngọc always used for Tiên. It was all familiar, cozy, like a portrait of the simple life she had witnessed so many times. But today, something made her heart heavy. A strange feeling crept into it—both intimate and distant, as if she were standing before a door she dared not open.
As she approached the cradle, little Tiên suddenly startled, letting out a few whimpering cries. His tiny face was smudged, tears still clinging to his long lashes. His big, round eyes blinked, looking around the dim room in confusion, as if searching for a familiar figure. Ngọc, though used to her child's sudden fits of crying, couldn't hide her exhaustion. She gently patted the baby's back, her voice soft but tinged with weariness.
"He's probably hungry. That's how babies are, you know, their eating and sleeping schedules are all over the place."
Quyên nodded, intending to stay and help Ngọc soothe Tiên, but a baseless sense of unease made her hesitate. This wasn't the first time she had felt this way. The night before, holding Tiên in her arms, she had felt it—a wave of contemplation washed over her, crowding her mind. The baby's tiny hand had clutched her finger, so soft yet so fragile. In that moment, she had suddenly felt adrift in this vast world. Faced with such a tiny being, she realized she had never truly tasted the simple joy of that kind of connection—the joy of a mother, a kinswoman, of someone who belonged to another.
The baby's cries gradually subsided as Ngọc patiently comforted him, then settled him in her lap to nurse. Ngọc's breathing was labored, as if every moment of childcare was a challenge she had to overcome with all the strength of a young mother. Quyên watched for a moment, then softly suggested:
"You should get some more rest. I'll make some porridge for you and Tiên. Thanh will probably be hungry when he gets back too."
Ngọc smiled faintly, her usual gentle smile, but it couldn't hide the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes. She nodded, patting her child a little longer before leaning back against the bed, her eyes quietly following Quyên's departing figure.
Stepping down into the small kitchen, Quyên took a deep breath, feeling the morning's sharp cold seep into her flesh. In the corner of the kitchen, a few crimson embers still glowed faintly among the firewood, as fragile as the warmth left over from the night. She rolled up her sleeves and slowly started a fire. The first orange-yellow sparks flared to life, radiating a warmth that gradually pushed back the surrounding chill. A gentle breeze slipped through a crack in the wooden door, making the flame tremble before it blazed up more strongly. Watching the dancing flames, Quyên felt a swell of vague emotions, as if the fire itself were a reflection of her own soul—at times blazing, at times wavering, at times weak before the unseen winds.
In this small house in the cold highlands, she had a place to return to. But was it a place where her heart truly belonged? The question arose silently in her mind, but she dared not pause to answer it. All she knew was that, amidst these harsh mountains, she had found a family—not of blood, but of shared days, of joys and sorrows borne together with Thanh and Ngọc.
The first day they set foot at the school site, Quyên, Thanh, and Ngọc couldn't hide their astonishment. The school they were to commit to—if it could even be called a "school"—was just three dilapidated rooms with thatched roofs and woven bamboo walls, through which the wind blew freely. The floor was packed earth, cracked from the sun, and the yard in front was a rugged patch of gravel dotted with a few scorched tufts of grass. The wind whistling through the cracks in the walls made a rustling sound, like the whisper of the forest, both familiar and foreign.
Quyên quickly pulled her scarf tighter, trying to conceal a trembling breath. She glanced silently at Thanh and Ngọc. All three had arrived full of passion, but now, faced with this scene, they could only stand motionless, no one saying a word. A thought flashed through Quyên's mind: Can I go back? But before she could dwell on it, a group of children came running towards them from a distance. They ran barefoot over the rough ground, their small feet cracked from the cold. Each one was skinny, their skin tanned dark by the wind and mist, their hair sun-bleached to a yellowish hue. Their clothes were mismatched, patched-up in every color, and one child wore only a thin, oversized shirt that looked as if it would slip right off. But their clear eyes shone with an extraordinary eagerness.
A little girl of about six or seven tugged on Quyên's sleeve, looking up with a radiant gaze. She smiled, revealing a few missing teeth.
"Are you the new teachers?"
The simple question tugged at Quyên's heart. She nodded gently as the other children surrounded them, chattering their greetings in mumbled voices. Ngọc and Thanh were momentarily flustered, but they too bent down to pat the children's heads, smiling in return. In that instant, something silently held them back. The initial feeling of bewilderment and doubt was swept away, replaced by a pang of sorrow mixed with affection. These children, despite their poverty, despite their countless hardships, were still so eager to learn, so hopeful for something brighter.
At that moment, Quyên knew she couldn't leave. Neither could Thanh and Ngọc. No matter the difficulties ahead, no matter how rundown the school, they had to stay, for the sake of those eyes and those smiles.
Those memories, like a slow, steady rain, had seeped into her mind, gentle yet persistent, permeating every corner of her memory. So many years had passed, so many seasons had changed, yet Quyên had never once thought of leaving this place. Even when a suffocating loneliness gripped her, during sleepless nights when the mountain wind howled through the door cracks, even when it seemed she had no ties left to compel her departure—she still stayed. Even when her elderly mother passed away, when there was no one left waiting for her return during the summer holidays, she did not leave.
It wasn't because she had no other choice. More than once, the school board had offered to transfer her to a school closer to the lowlands, a place with better facilities and a stable salary, far from the long days of clinging to this remote mountain outpost. But each time, she hesitated, then refused. Because this place, this old school, these classrooms with their tin roofs and wooden walls teetering in the monsoon winds, had become the home she knew. And here, in this borderland, were Ngọc and Thanh—the friends who had been with her since the very first day she had tentatively set foot in this place. They were not just colleagues; they were the only family she could lean on in this vast world.
Outside, a dog suddenly barked, pulling Quyên back to the present. She glanced out and saw Thanh's figure on the veranda. He gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, his breath still carrying a trace of the early morning chill. In his hand was a bag of fresh vegetables, faintly scented with damp earth. He set the bag down on the floor and smiled brightly, his voice cheerful.
"Great, you're making porridge! I just got back in time. Old Páo's son at the market even gave me some extra wild vegetables."
Quyên took the bag from him, nodding with a smile. The wild vegetables were a vibrant green, their pungent, familiar scent filling the air. She quickly washed them and chopped them finely, ready to add to the porridge that was bubbling on the stove. The flickering firelight illuminated Thanh's face, a face weathered by sun and wind, yet still holding the same sincere, rustic charm as the day they first met.
Thanh stood beside her, rubbing his hands together to warm them, then continued slowly, "Don't worry, I found some fresh lean meat, enough to help Ngọc recover. It's just that… every time I buy things at the market, the prices are never cheap. Life is always so frugal..."
He let the sentence hang, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Quyên didn't need to ask to understand. The life of a family of teachers in the highlands was far from abundant; every penny of their salary had to be carefully managed to support the household, not to mention the new baby who needed care. She looked at Thanh, a feeling of affection mixed with sympathy rising within her. They had walked together through so many years, had watched each other grow, and had tasted all the joys and sorrows. Between them, there was a bond so deep that sometimes, words were not needed to understand each other's hearts.
She quietly stirred the porridge, listening to the crackling of the firewood in the stove, a strange peace settling over her. Though life was still full of challenges, though the years passed by, at least they still had each other.
Breakfast that morning was simple but imbued with the warmth of family. The three of them gathered around the pot of smooth mountain rice porridge, its flavor mingled with the fresh aroma of wild vegetables and the subtle sweetness of lean meat. The steam rising from their bowls chased away the last of the highland morning's chill. Little Tiên, after a restless night, was now sleeping soundly in his mother's arms, his plump cheeks a rosy pink. His small mouth was puckered as if dreaming of something sweet, his tiny hands twitching unconsciously in the air.
Outside, the early sun began to stream through the cracks in the weathered wooden door. The pale rays stretched across the packed-earth floor, glinting off the old but clean porcelain bowls. A simple scene, lacking in material wealth, yet possessing something that brought an extraordinary peace to the soul.