Every time a motorcycle rumbles by, its breeze brings to life bells in the Tết ornaments adorning the shop's door frame. But she's too absorbed in her phone call, still undecided on tonight's dinner plans, to notice the swirling breeze or the singing chimes. New notifications keep lighting up her screen; her eyes flickering between the conversation and whoever needs her next.
Another jingle rings in the air, not from the gust of wind this time, but from a passerby lingering by the trinkets on display out front. She doesn't look up right away, still nodding along to the call, her gaze fixed on the glowing screen. It's not until the customer's presence steps closer, or maybe it's in the way the air shifts just slightly, that her attention eventually drifts away from her notifications. She finally glances up. Her face tightens in surprise, then quickly softens into something unreadable. No words leave her lips as she ends the call mid-sentence.
I hover just inside the doorway, unsure if her expression is welcoming as a familiar face or if I'm overstepping as a ghost from the past. “I thought you were planning to close shop this year auntie," these words fall from my lips, a faint smile painting my weary face.
A string of words stumble out — "What are you doing here? How are you? Wait, let me call my daughter!" Her eyes frantically shift back to her phone, fingers posed for speed dial. Before she gets the chance to tap the call button, my hand stretches over and stops her.
"Please don't, auntie. I'm only here to drop off her things to you. I also wanted to give you and uncle my gratitude for treating me, a stranger from Canada, so well back in January when I visited your daughter."
The shock in her eyes dissipates as quickly as it came — her mouth moves but no words come out as the motorcycle hums replace the silence.
“You didn't have to come all this way just to say thank you," she finally lets out. "I hope you're doing alright, so let me call my daughter —"
“No, auntie," I interrupt, gently. "I'm not here to disturb her peace. We both moved on and me being here might upset her, so I just wanted to stop by with her things."
I reach into my bag, and lift out a small bundle wrapped in soft, embroidered cloth. Her eyes drop to it, then rise again to meet mine. Her complexion holds no colour, as if my spectre drained it out of her. Even the late afternoon's descending sun, pouring in from the window, avoids where we stand.
"I'm sorry, for hurting your daughter. I tried my best to make her happy, and I can only hope she is happier now."
She says nothing — I figured she wouldn’t. But I wasn't sure what I expected; maybe just trying to be seen for who I am, not how her daughter might have remembered. I had to leave something behind, even if seeking forgiveness was no longer owed by me.
Setting the package lightly on the table, I turn, the sounds of my shoes scuff against the stone floor. On my way out, I see a sign sitting in the corner, with faded words that read discount on all Tết items from back in January. My eyes avert away, haunted by it — the writing was a combined effort of mine and her daughter.
Phone still in her hand, the screen begins to dim as she just stands in place, watching my presence disappear out the doorframe as fast as it emerged moments before. The sounds of motorcycles slowly fades back in from the background, and only until the jingle rings out again does she escape her shock, snapping back to reality.
As I step back into the street, the sun blinds me in its evening light. I get on my ride and make my way back to my hotel on the familiar streets of downtown Đà Lạt. Behind me, the faint hum of a motorcycle slows to a stop in front of the shop — I don't look back to see who lets the next bells sing.
The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?
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