Dawn softened Hanoi at five AM. The fierce heat had yielded to a thin coolness after the rain. Van's rented room in Dong Da stirred slowly. He dressed silently, avoiding waking his mother, whose coughing had finally subsided. His younger sister Mai slept curled in a corner, books strewn by her pillow.
Splashing cold water onto his young but weathered face, he took a deep breath. The tiny kitchen held no warmth or food. He grabbed two stale bánh mì for lunch, counted a few crumpled bills from a rusted tin (emergency cash for the fare), silently paid respects to his father's faded photo, pulled on his helmet, and pushed his cleaned-up but mud-stained bike back into the grey, cool street.
The trip from Dong Da to Đồng Tiến village in Gia Lâm was long in the pale light. Buses crawled; cycle rickshaw drivers waited; uniformed factory workers pedaled silently. Smells rose: charcoal smoke from waking street stoves, the unmistakable scent of phở, trash uncollected. Van navigated, calmer than usual. The damp 100,000 dong glimmered faintly in his mind, a promise tied to the mystery of the man he was to meet.
He parked precisely at 6:50 AM outside Mr. Chen's gate. Banana trees stretched wide, green leaves against the mist. Ash from last night's incense lay near the tiny shrine. Chen was waiting: clean white shirt, dark trousers, a worn canvas satchel.
"Morning, Sir Chen."
"Morning, Van." Chen gestured towards his own bike, now visible and gleaming despite its age. "I'll follow. Saves you backtracking." Not why no taxi? Just practicality.
"Of course. Lead the way." Van replied, unsurprised now by this logic.
Two bikes traced the muddy route back towards Ba Dinh. Dawn mist hung over green rice paddies outside Gia Lâm. As they climbed onto Long Bien Bridge crossing the murky, swirling Red River, the city revealed itself. The grand, ageing steel bridge bore the marks of French colonial times and repeated war damage. Below, the wide river flowed, vast and brown. Mist softened Hanoi's skyline – ancient yellow-tiled roofs peeking amidst modern blocks.
"An old bridge. Older than my grandfather," Van offered, his voice hinting at a deeper connection to the city's scars. "Bombed many times, always rebuilt."
"Mm. A resilient bridge. River, bridge, the people moving... Hanoi's pulse." Chen said, riding closer, his gaze distant, looking beyond the fog.
Near Đồng Xuân Market by Hoan Kiem, city life roared to life. Stalls teemed: the sweet tang of tropical fruit, sharp fish smell, pungent herbs, rich coffee. Hawkers yelled; buyers haggled; motorbikes honked. Food smells intensified: steaming bánh mì, sizzling bánh xèo, plump gỏi cuốn rolls.
"Breakfast, Sir Chen? Good bún riêu nearby?" Van asked, his stomach tight from hunger and the cold bread. Showing a real taste of Hanoi felt like genuine thanks.
Chen smiled, a real one this time. "Yes. Better than hotel food." No hesitation.
They squeezed onto low plastic stools at a corner stall, the fold-out table sticky. Van ordered two bowls of classic crab noodle soup with quẩy (fried breadsticks). Hot bowls arrived: fiery orange crab-tomato broth, pale crabmeat balls, puffed golden tofu, slices of steamed pork blood, green onions floating. Aroma steamrolled them.
Chen ate without fuss, chopsticks moving steadily. A taste, then a small nod. "Good. Rich crab, fresh." His focus was total. Nearby sat laborers, sellers, workers in cheap uniforms. Van noticed no one cared.
Across the street, a different scene: a brand-new, expensive Honda SH motorcycle parked by a cleaner, pricier cafe. Its owner—young, crisp shirt, perfect hair—chatted with a well-dressed girl at an outside table. His gaze drifted over their noisy, common stall and clientele. Recognition sparked—a familiar flicker of detached superiority and mild disgust—a wrinkled nose as if their existence polluted the air—before turning back to his companion. The look Van knew intimately, from the Fortuner driver to the Northern lady.
Van felt a pang. Soup stuck in his throat. He looked down, concentrating on his bowl. This cheap, delicious warmth was his world, Chen's, the stall owner's. Real people.
"That man," Chen set his chopsticks down, nodding subtly towards the SH owner. "What's his bike worth in bowls of soup?"
Van blinked, surprised. He calculated. "Five... six hundred? More?"
Chen wiped his mouth with coarse paper, gaze level. "A bowl makes profit. But make that bike? Factories profit. Dealers profit. Designers profit more. Where does most profit go?"
"Factory owners? Dealers? Foreign companies?" Van tried, grasping.
"Yes, not entirely," Chen agreed. "To the sources: materials, patents, designs, networks. Not riders. They push the system—in offices, investment banks. Us?" He gestured at the busy soup lady. "At the chain's end. Labor. Transport. We get sweat pay. We participate, but struggle to share the real value."
Van was lost. This was a foreign language.
"You drive hard. Income covers costs? Monthly savings?"
It struck deep. Van gave a bitter half-smile. "Savings? Sir Chen. Mom's medicine. Mai's school. Rent. Fuel. Bike repairs. Grab cuts... Debt hanging. Survival is... not falling deeper." He unconsciously touched his chest, the phantom 100,000 dong damp again. "Debt? How much?"
Van hesitated, but Chen's quiet presence felt safe. "Th... thirty million dong. Overdue."
"Thirty million..." Chen repeated softly. "Ever think beyond sweat for money? Make small money... grow? Like a seed?"
Van shook his head. Money growing? That felt like bankers, loan sharks.
"Imagine Hanoi," Chen looked towards high-rises. "Hammered steel. Some spots get hard (hot zones). Some crack or sink (cold zones). Sharp eyes see value in cracks. Buy a cheap old place there now—position good? Fix it up cheap. When the city-hammer hits, cracks close, sinks rise... value shifts." He dipped a finger in water, drawing a rough map on the sticky table. "That's investment. Seeing future change. Takes sight. Patience. A small seed to plant... before the change." He met Van's eyes. "Better than sweat for cash. Lets money work for you."
The words slammed into Van. A tiny spark ignited in his worn-out landscape.
"Me... money for investment? Not even a seed..." Van's voice rasped.
"The seed... isn't just cash," Chen wiped the water-map away, his eyes locking onto Van's. "It's knowing where the city shifts. The resilience built here," he gestured around, "the problem-solving. Cash is the surface. Seeing hidden value... and acting? That's the real seed."
Breakfast noise faded. From the direction of Ba Dinh Square, the national flag-raising anthem began. Morning arrived. Van stared at the man calmly eating soup. Something tight uncoiled. Something frail yet fierce stirred in the barren ground of his heart.
For the first time, the city fog seemed lit by a possible path. Its start? This greasy plastic table.