Since the day An saw Khánh again, she had not quite found her way back to her old rhythm. She tried to live as usual, kept going to work, kept writing, kept sitting in her usual corner of the café, ordering the same drink, opening her laptop as if nothing had changed. But inside her, everything had shifted slightly, like a song with one wrong note—small, yet impossible to ignore.
Every story she wrote in the days that followed carried something undefined. Like fragments of emotion breaking loose from memories she never meant to summon. There was no character named Khánh, no silhouette that mirrored him exactly, but there was always someone with a gentle gaze, a silence that choked the voice, an ending uncertain between farewell and hope. She didn't mean to write about him, yet she couldn't deny that his sudden presence had touched a place inside her she thought long sealed.
An blamed herself for wavering. She had thought she was strong enough to face anything, even the man who had once meant everything. But it took only one brief moment, a glance across the café, to blur the walls she had built over the past three years, as if sunlight had melted fog.
Minh noticed the change in An.
As colleagues working together on writing and editing projects, Minh knew her rhythms well. Lately, she had become quieter, staring off into space more often, sitting before her screen for long stretches without typing, then suddenly writing with a kind of desperate momentum, like running from something inside. Minh didn't ask. He didn't intrude. He just quietly made her another cup of tea, opened the window to let in the soft afternoon sun, sent her excerpts of books he thought might inspire her.
As a colleague, he never allowed himself to cross a fragile line. But in his heart, he started to worry. He worried about the emptiness in her eyes, worried because her gaze no longer rested in the present. He didn't know who it was. But he knew someone had returned. Someone who had once left wounds behind.
One afternoon, An sent a new manuscript to her editor, an old friend who had worked with her since her early writing days. After reading it, the reply came simply: "Your writing's changed. Softer. Sadder. It feels like you're writing to someone you haven't let go."
An stared at the message, her fingers resting lightly on the screen. She didn't reply. But she knew it was true. She was still writing to someone, someone she no longer dared name.
That evening, while tidying an old drawer, An found a small box she had long forgotten. Inside were faded photographs, an old train ticket to Đà Lạt, and a letter that had never been sent. It was the letter she had written for Khánh the night he flew to Paris, but never mailed, unable to find the right beginning or the right end.
The handwriting was still full of hesitation. She read it again, line by line, and saw herself in it, the version of her that was younger, more naïve, heartbreakingly sincere.
And just like that, the memories returned like a flood. The days they biked through the rain, the nights they stayed up watching movies and fell asleep on the sofa, the wordless hugs before each brief goodbye.
And the promise they never kept. We'll return to Đà Lạt, once we're no longer so busy.
The next day, as An left the café, she passed a small art gallery on a corner street. She hadn't planned to stop, only to walk by. But her eyes landed on a large painting displayed in the window.
It was a misty hill, a wooden house nestled among pine trees, a soft light glowing through its window, like something from a dream.
An stood frozen.
It was the painting Khánh had once told her he wanted to paint, back when they were still in love. He had never finished it. It was only ever an idea, sketched in a notebook. But now, it existed, vivid, real, full of breath and memory.
Her heart raced. She didn't know why. Was it nostalgia, the echo of something lost? Or was it because Khánh might be near?
She remained there, as if waiting, for something to happen, or perhaps waiting for herself to know where to go next. She stood still before the painting while the world moved gently around her. The wind stirred the chime hanging from the gallery door. The soft clang of a boy's bicycle echoed down the street. A vendor's hoarse call for bánh mì rang out like a familiar lullaby of this small town.
She leaned forward slightly, her hand brushing the cool glass. The paint shimmered under the amber light of sunset, making the scene feel alive, like it was breathing from within her memory. There was no artist's name beneath it, only a small white symbol, a signature that felt both strange and deeply familiar.
Inside, an elderly woman was sweeping the floor. She looked up and smiled kindly at An through the glass, nodding as if to invite her in. But An didn't step forward. She was afraid that if she did, if she stood any closer, something in her would break.
From the church down the street, the bells rang three long chimes announcing the close of day. Sunlight slanted lower, brushing her hair with gold like time's gentle dust. She clenched her fingers, then let go. Her heart beat slowly, but every pulse was clear.
A group of students passed by, white shirts fluttering in the wind, their laughter trailing behind. A single red leaf spun silently from a branch and landed softly at her feet.
And in that moment, An knew. Things would never be the same again.