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My aunt's house sat at the very end of a narrow alley, separated from the noise of the world by an old iron gate that screeched every time it opened. Inside was a cramped courtyard with an aging starfruit tree stripped bare of leaves, its roots heaving up the cracked concrete like long-healed scars.
I stepped in without feeling like a guest.
But not like family either.
I was just… someone standing between two shores, belonging to neither.
In the yard were three children we had met before, though we rarely ever played together.
Two boys stood close to the porch, tall and thin, silent. One was older than I expected, his eyes deep and heavy—the kind of eyes that belonged to someone used to watching before speaking. The other was shorter, hands shoved into his pockets, standing slightly to the side as if ready to block the wind for whoever stood behind him.
And the girl…
She was squatting by the base of the starfruit tree.
She looked up when she saw me.
There was no curiosity. No caution. Just a very direct, very quick glance—then she sprang to her feet and ran toward me.
"You came to play with me, right?"
Her voice was clear.
Before I could answer, she was already standing right next to me. So close that my sleeve brushed her shoulder.
My aunt set my backpack down on a wooden chair.
"There aren't many people here," she said.
"You can relax. Don't worry about anyone talking."
"Don't worry," she added. "It's just me, you, and the three kids."
I nodded. The girl stayed by my side, refusing to move. As if I were something that had just appeared, and she was afraid that if she let go, I might disappear.
The two boys only nodded in greeting. No questions. Few words. But their eyes swept over me quickly, carefully—not probing, but memorizing.
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The second night, I couldn't sleep.
The ceiling was high, the yellow light thin and cold. I lay on my side, listening to the ticking clock in the living room. That steady rhythm reminded me of the hospital—of nights waiting for a doctor to step out, not daring to breathe too loudly.
Around midnight, my door creaked open.
I opened my eyes.
The girl stood there.
She hugged an old teddy bear to her chest, fidgeting, unsure whether she should come in.
"I… can't sleep," she whispered.
"Can I lie here?"
I shifted slightly to make space. I said nothing.
She climbed onto the bed and pressed close to me, clutching the teddy bear while her other hand gripped my sleeve tightly. As if I were the only anchor in this house.
I didn't ask why. Some children cling to others not because they're close, but because they feel safe.
The next morning, I woke up with my hand still being held. The girl was asleep, her forehead resting against my shoulder, her breathing even. I didn't pull my hand away.
In the kitchen, the two boys were already up. The older one was lighting the stove; the younger was washing dishes. No one talked much, but everything flowed smoothly—efficient, practiced. The kind of family where everyone knew their role without being told.
"Eat the porridge, chị," the girl said when I sat down.
She pushed the bowl toward me, her eyes almost commanding.
I let out a soft laugh.
"You eat."
She shook her head.
"You eat first."
The boys watched quietly. The older one spoke softly, just once:
"That's just how she is. Eat."
---
In the days that followed, the girl started clinging to me more. Everywhere I went, she followed. I went into the yard—she followed. I helped my aunt sort medicine—she sat right beside me, touching nothing, but refusing to leave.
Once, I asked,
"Why do you keep following me everywhere?"
She thought for a moment.
"I don't know."
Then she added,
"But I like it."
On the tenth day, my aunt called me into her room.
She closed the door gently.
"There's something," she said,
"that I need to tell you."
I listened. I didn't interrupt.
When she finished, I sat there for a long time. I didn't cry. I didn't ask her to repeat it. I only felt something inside my chest collapse—and then stand back up again.
That night, the girl hugged me tightly.
She didn't ask anything.
She only said one sentence, her voice trembling:
"Please don't go."
From that day on, she clung to me even more. Not just following—protecting. When someone spoke to me, she looked first. When someone came close, she stood right beside me. Once, when I coughed lightly, she immediately went to get water.
The boys remained as quiet as ever. But I began to notice something:
Whenever I came home late, the porch light was always on.
Whenever a stranger came asking questions, one of the boys was always nearby.
No words were needed.
They had already accepted me as family.
That night, I lay in the quiet room, the girl holding me as if she feared I might dissolve. I stared at the ceiling, thinking one thing very clearly:
I could leave.
But I couldn't leave them behind.
And I didn't yet know that…
this attachment,
this clinging,
would become the thread that held me back
when I later stepped into the darkness.
Lying there, lost in thought, I suddenly remembered the moment my mother died.