Nam grew up fast. The once-slender shoulders had become steady, broader. He worked odd jobs — first at a carpenter's shop, then a construction site. His palms turned rough, his back darkened by the sun. But whenever he had a free moment, he still came to find me.
We sat together under the old almond tree in front of our elementary school, eating ice cream bars. The summer leaves, green and broad, fell onto our shoulders, clinging to our hair.
"I got my first pay today," he said proudly.
"How much?"
"Twenty thousand. I bought some bread — and I'm saving the rest to buy you a book when you start learning to read."
I widened my eyes, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. "I told you, you don't have to."
He looked straight at me. "You do. You need to know how to read — so if someone writes you a nasty letter, you'll know how to tear it up."
I laughed, but for some reason tears fell anyway.
In the years that followed, Nam and I practically grew up together. We studied in the same charity class at the end of a narrow alley — a place where kids without money could still learn, our notebooks filled with crooked letters.
The blackboard was cracked, half-broken, but the teacher was kind, her clothes always carrying the faint scent of grapefruit blossoms. After class, we picked up empty bottles to sell, then stopped by the Red River to skip stones.
Nam always tried to throw farther than me, but each time he'd turn and grin."Lost again. You're strong, Mai An."
"If I win, what do I get?"
"A candy."
"That's it?"
"Yeah. But it's one I've saved for two days."
We laughed, our voices floating into the sunset — fading, yet lingering somewhere deep inside.
That's how we leaned on each other, two small kids against the world.
There were nights when the power went out. We'd light a candle, the flame flickering over Nam's face, showing faint scars left by his father's hands.
He didn't talk much, only flinched when things crashed in the next room, his hand tightening around mine.
"What if one day I disappear?" he asked.
"Then I'll find you."
"How far would you go?"
"To the end of Hanoi."
He chuckled. "You don't even know how big Hanoi is."
"Not as big as how much I'd miss you," I replied — and immediately blushed.
He turned away, but I knew he was smiling.
That summer, when we were six, we joined the neighborhood kids catching dragonflies on the riverbank. The sun was blazing, and Nam covered my head with his shirt, letting himself burn instead.
When we came back, we shared a boiled corn. I took small bites; he broke off the bigger piece and handed it to me.
"I already ate," he said. "You finish it."
"Girls have to eat more if they want to grow," he added with mock seriousness.
I laughed through my bites, feeling a strange warmth rise inside — the kind that never really fades, even years later.
By the time we were seventeen, Nam was working at a metal workshop. I saw him less often. His hands were scratched, his hair dusted with iron filings. But every night, he'd still stop by my stall where I worked part-time.
One evening, he handed me a paper bag of roasted sweet potatoes."Here — eat something warm."
"Where'd you get the money?" I asked.
"Got paid today. Take it, or I'll be cold just seeing you cold."
I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. Love at that age was foolishly simple — it didn't need words. A bag of sweet potatoes could make my heart tremble.
Nam's boarding room was hidden deep in an alley on Khâm Thiên Street. The tin roof leaked when it rained, the ceiling stained yellow. At night, water dripped steadily through the cracks, mixing with the smell of old liquor and cigarettes — a scent that had followed him all his life.
His father, Ngô Văn Dậu, was a small man who never let go of his bottle. When sober, he pedaled a cyclo; when drunk, he cursed and hit. The only thing he valued was money — any money, clean or dirty.
His mother, Đoàn Ngọc Hà, was still beautiful — big eyes, bright red lips. Once praised as "as lovely as a theatre girl", she had become the tragedy everyone whispered about. She painted her face in gaudy colors, leaving early and coming home late every night.
Once, Nam asked her quietly, "Where do you go every night?"
She threw him a cold look. "None of your business. Mind your studies."
But he knew. Everyone in the neighborhood knew — she was seeing a man from a construction company, someone who promised her a life better than this shabby hole.
Dinner in their house was always a war — his father yelling, his mother shouting back, the clatter of bowls breaking, chairs falling, a child crying.
Nam and his little sister, Thiên Trang, would cling to each other behind the door, holding their breath through every sound.
"It's okay, Trang," he whispered, squeezing her hand. "Sleep. I'm here."
But he was trembling too — trembling with fear he couldn't name.
End of Chapter 7.