In a small county town, neighbors lived close enough that the walls had ears. A whisper at the dinner table could turn into the talk of the whole street.

That evening, while eating, Thanh Quan overheard his parents' hushed conversation. His mother sighed heavily:

"Old Madam Lam's daughter—got herself knocked up by that city man."

Then, as if the misfortune were her own, she turned to her husband with another sigh:

"Even his wife came all the way here to catch them red-handed. Madam Lam was so humiliated she had to sell her house in a rush and move away..."

"Let it be," his father muttered. "Other people's business isn't ours."

Clatter.

Before his father could finish his rebuke, they both heard the clatter beneath the table. Their eyes shifted to their son, seated across from them.

Normally, Thanh Quan ate with a calm precision, never careless enough to spill even a grain of rice. Yet now his chopsticks had slipped from his trembling fingers.

When he bent to pick them up, his hand still shook. His face drained of color. Had he heard wrong? His mind screamed denial. How could such a thing be true?

His parents, startled, asked if he was unwell, but his ears were ringing with a relentless buzz. His head was a whirlpool of noise. He didn't even know how he had fled the house—only that he was suddenly standing outside the shuttered convenience store. The lights were out, the door locked.

A neighbor, recognizing the boy who so often bought things there, leaned over the fence to deliver the gossip:

"Lam's family sold the place this afternoon and moved away. If you want to buy anything, you'll have to wait for the new owner."

"Tsk. An unmarried girl, pregnant out of wedlock—guess she was too ashamed to stay."

Another voice chimed in, sharp with scorn. Gossip in such a town was never kind. Misfortune was a feast for wagging tongues. They dissected it mercilessly, all of it pointing to the same cruel verdict: the foolish vanity of a poor girl who dared reach above her station.

"Didn't Madam Lam used to strut around, bragging that her daughter was so beautiful only city boys could deserve her?"

"City boy, all right. A rich one, too. Pity he already had a wife. Her daughter's nothing but a homewrecker. Thought she could become some rich man's mistress? Dream on."

The words sliced like knives, but Thanh Quan's mind recoiled. He clamped down on his ears, shut his eyes—refusing to hear, refusing to see.

Inside him, chaos churned. He remembered that radiant image of her, laughing with joy in the arms of that man. Now he realized—it had all been a painted lie. A dazzling illusion spun by a city man, a masterpiece of deception.

No one knew where Madam Lam and her daughter had gone. Only that they would never return to face the shame that now clung to their names.

And the beautiful girl—the goddess in all the sketches hidden in the wooden box beneath his bed—was gone too. Gone, before he could ever gift those drawings to her.

Years later, another pair of eyes would stumble upon them.

Now, Thanh Quan stood at the balcony, cigarette between his fingers, smoke blurring his vision. Tomorrow was Nhu Nha's death anniversary.

"Please don't smoke, Uncle. If you die young, what would I do?"

The girl's soft voice brushed against him like the night sea breeze. Leaning against the railing, Nhu Ha tilted her head at him. Through the haze, her eyes seemed like small stars, dimmed by his smoke. He took a long drag, then flicked the ash out the window.

"All right. Your uncle's still young and strong. Don't curse me like that."

The next morning, he pedaled his rickety bicycle, with Nhu Ha perched on the back, to the market for offerings.

The memorial for Nhu Nha was no grand affair—just a meal like any other day. The only difference was that before eating, Thanh Quan brought out a metal basin, where Nhu Ha lit paper villas and toy cars, sending them down in flames for her mother.

She never understood why he was so insistent every year on burning those extravagant paper mansions.

Nhu Ha wasn't sentimental, much less superstitious. She didn't know that once, a man had vowed to give her mother a life of wealth and comfort.

A promise spoken in the fever of youthful love—two poor souls clinging to dreams of a brighter future. But years later, both had returned scarred by life, marked by wounds too deep to hide.

Two lonely hearts sought solace in each other, shared warmth and dreams, weaving illusions of a world where their suffering might vanish.

But reality was merciless. The burden of survival—of rice and rent—ground them down. Someone, at last, had let go. And with that step, they abandoned the cruel world they knew for a path strewn with roses—roses that grew over layers of rotting mud.

Thanh Quan watched the ashes scatter into the wind, unsure if Nhu Nha could ever receive these offerings. He only knew each year's ritual was nothing more than his own penance—a feeble attempt to atone for his selfishness.