I looked up at him through the pale light of dawn. His face was still thin, cheekbones sharp, but there was something strange about his eyes — a mix of sorrow and calm, like if I were to fall right now, he'd be the one to catch me.
I asked softly, "Have you ever thought of running away from home?"
"I have," he said, "but my little sister's still there. If I go, she'll be the one to get beaten."
"I understand." My voice came out quiet, like the wind itself. "No one would hit me… but no one would miss me either."
We fell silent for a long time. Then I reached into my bag and pressed a crumpled five-thousand note into his hand.
"Take it. Buy something for your sister."
He smiled — truly smiled — for the first time."If you come by the market tomorrow, I'll pay you back."
"I promise," I said. "I'll be waiting."
We sat by the roadside, sharing the warmth of a cold bun in the misty Hanoi morning. Everything was poor, messy, gray. Yet in that cold, for the first time, I didn't feel alone.
The morning air of Hanoi in 1996 was still heavy with fog, the kind that seeps into your collar. When I woke the next day, dew still clung to the window, shimmering like silver dust.
I wrapped an old wool scarf around my neck and slipped out.I didn't tell my mother. She was still passed out on the chair, the smell of last night's liquor thick in the air.
I went straight to the old spot near Aunt Hân's steamed bun stall. The wind was sharp, cutting. I stood waiting, eyes fixed on the red dirt road in the distance.
After a while, he appeared.
Same worn-out shirt with frayed shoulders, khaki pants brushing his ankles, cracked plastic sandals. But this time, a dark red handprint marked his left cheek.
I frowned and stepped closer. "What happened to you?"
He avoided my eyes. Then pulled out a neatly folded five-thousand note."I came to pay you back."
I didn't take it. My eyes stayed on the mark on his face. "Who hit you?"
He hesitated before answering, voice rough as if the words hurt to say."My father. He was drunk. Saw me hiding the money, thought I stole it. I told him it was from you — he didn't believe me."
My hands clenched tight, a mix of anger and pity burning in my chest."You could've told him it was for food. I can talk to him—"
He gave a small, fragile smile — thin as smoke."He wouldn't listen. He only knows how to swing, then pass out. Mom stopped him this time… otherwise, I wouldn't be standing here."
He held the money out again, eyes down."Keep it. I don't want to owe anyone."
I took it back, slipped it into my pocket.Neither of us said anything for a long while. The wind rustled through the trees, whispering like the ghosts of things unsaid.
"I'm learning to read now," he said quietly. "There's a foreman at the construction site teaching me. Says it'll be easier to find work later."
I looked at him, a strange ache blooming in my chest.A boy like him, living knee-deep in mud, still trying to stay clean.
"You're amazing," I said. "I want to learn too, but my mom won't let me."
He turned, his eyes softening."Then when I get better at it, I'll teach you."
I smiled — a small, shy smile."Okay. But don't forget."
The wind swept past, lifting strands of my hair. I looked at his face — his cheek still red, but his eyes bright again.
That autumn morning in Hanoi, I didn't know that moment would stay with me forever — every detail etched so clearly that even years later, when he was long gone, I could still remember exactly how he looked in that pale light.
End of Chapter 5