Since then, every time it rained, I would see him sitting by the lake where we once ate steamed buns together. He no longer told stories, no longer smiled — just sat quietly staring at the water, letting the wind scatter his memories, then held his sister's hand a little tighter.
Our childhood after that was filled with moments like those — afternoons by the lake, mornings wandering the market, and countless times I silently watched him trying to forget the one thing he never could.
That summer, Hanoi rained more than ever. Every evening the clouds would burst, water danced on the corrugated roofs, trickled down through the window frame, and pooled inside the damp little room where the three of us sheltered together.
I, Nhat Nam, and Thien Trang weren't family by blood, but we were a small family all the same.Back then, I often woke up early to help sell food at the market, earning a few coins. Nam worked at a repair shop down the alley, his hands growing darker with oil each day. At night, he still mixed warm water for his sister to wash her face, smiling as he said, "See? I've got a trade now. When I'm rich, I'll fix your motorbike for free."
I laughed — the first real laugh in months. Maybe because it was the first time since his mother's death that he had spoken so much.
One afternoon, when I brought dinner over, I found him sewing a tear in Thien Trang's old shirt. His hand trembled, the needle clumsy, but his eyes were serious.
I sat down beside him and teased, "You're quite skillful, aren't you?"
He chuckled softly. "Just learning by myself. You think only girls need to know how to mend things?"
It sounded like a joke, but there was something different in his voice — a small, quiet hope I'd never heard before.
I suddenly realized he was no longer the boy crying beside his mother's body that night. There was something growing in those eyes — a quiet strength.
From that day on, Nhat Nam truly changed. He spoke less, but no longer hid. He woke earlier, fetched water, washed clothes, cooked for Trang before heading to work.
Thien Trang was only eight then. Not because she lived comfortably, but because hardship had taught her to understand too soon. She could already cook rice, wash clothes — her tiny hands cracked from the soap water.
Trang wasn't like her brother. While Nam was quiet and solemn, she was lively, always chattering. Whenever she saw him tired, she would wrap her arms around his neck and say in her clear, childish voice, "Brother, smile. Just once."
"What for?"
"So I can love you."
And then Nam smiled — a rare smile, light as a breeze, yet warm enough to fill the little room.
I often sat watching the two of them play. Trang tied her hair with a frayed ribbon, her patched white shirt hanging loose, yet she still looked as pretty as a doll in someone else's glass cabinet.
She loved telling fairytales — always the ones with happy endings. Whenever she reached the part where the princess met the prince, she would point at me and her brother, saying innocently, "One day, Sister An will be the princess, Brother Nam the prince, and I'll be the little cat following you both."
I laughed, tapping her forehead. "What kind of princess wears torn clothes?"
"The more torn, the more pitiful — that's why the prince loves her," she said with a grin.
Her words made Nhat Nam look up at me. His gaze was soft — so soft it felt like, for a moment, the word love wasn't just a child's joke anymore.
Thien Trang was bright and quick. Nam and I did everything we could to make sure she could study properly. Some nights, when I came home late from the market, I'd find her sitting by the little wooden table, carefully tracing letters under the dim oil lamp. Beside her, Nam had fallen asleep, his head resting on her open notebook.
I stood there quietly. For a moment, I thought I was looking at something warmer than anything else in this world — a home that had nothing, yet still had love.
End of Chapter 9