"Hello, you must be the new student Bach My mentioned, right? I'm Chi Thanh. Just call me 'Teacher Thanh,' like the others do. Hmm, have you ever studied drawing before?"

His voice, just like his appearance, was gentle and composed—soft and flowing, as if it were a spring quietly trickling into one's ears.

But to Nhu Ha, the series of questions came too quickly, leaving her flustered. All the emotions she had struggled to contain earlier vanished in an instant. With no choice, she steadied her expression and answered politely, her calm exterior masking her unease:

"Hello, teacher. I'm Nhu Ha. This is my very first time attending an art class."

Teacher Thanh was exactly as Bach My had described—gentle, patient, and attentive. After learning that Nhu Ha was a complete beginner, he carefully explained the basics, from sketching still-life to practicing on plaster busts, and listed the necessary tools she would need to buy. His voice carried a soft laugh as he added:

"If you haven't bought them yet, you can ask Bach My. She knows all the good places for art supplies."

When Bach My noticed that Nhu Ha wanted to say something, she nudged her elbow playfully and whispered into her friend's ear, "Don't mind him—his supplies are all special-ordered from overseas. For us amateurs, the regular stuff from the bookstore will do just fine."

Nhu Ha gave her a small shove back and whispered, "That's not it. I only wanted to ask about the tuition fees. I already managed to buy most of the supplies you told me about the other day."

The young teacher caught sight of the two girls whispering. With his hand half-covering his lips to hide a smile, he said warmly:

"If you have questions, just ask me directly. The tuition is paid monthly. For today, you can simply observe and see which schedule works best for you. Since you're starting a little later than the others, like Bạch Mỹ, you might not manage a full week of classes—but it's fine. As long as you practice whenever you have free time at home, you'll catch up."

Glancing at the tuition chart that Bach My handed her, Nhu Ha's hand tightened ever so slightly. At last, she signed up for three classes a week—Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday afternoons.

It was summer break. In the mornings, Nhu Ha worked part-time at a small bakery near her house, her simple tasks being to watch the store and arrange pastries on display. This way, her afternoons on other days could be devoted to different lessons.

She had already done her research: the Fine Arts entrance exam required not only artistic skills but also Literature. She could perhaps ask her uncle to fund a tutoring class in one subject, but art classes? She doubted he would agree.

Yes—at sixteen, Nhu Ha had neither father nor mother. Her mother had passed away when she was only thirteen, and she now lived under the roof of an uncle who wasn't even related to her by blood.

Thinking of him—thinking of those old, dust-covered paintings—her heart clenched painfully. Resolute, she took out her small wallet and paid for the full month's tuition on the spot.

Afterward, she bid her teacher farewell and wheeled her bicycle out. Teacher Thanh, clearly pleased by her decisiveness, smiled with eyes that curved gently, so tenderly that Như Hạ wanted nothing more than to flee.

From the doorway, Bach My leaned against the iron gate, grinning at the sight of her flustered friend escaping. "Don't forget to come on time tomorrow!" she called.

Then she closed the gate, locking it with a playful shake of her braided pigtails. But the moment the latch clicked and Nhu Ha's figure disappeared into the golden glow of sunset, Bach My's eyes darkened. Her hand clenched tightly against the iron bars, her whole being radiating a cold, unsettling aura. The cheerful brightness from just moments ago had vanished—replaced by something sharp, almost menacing.

Yet just as swiftly, the shadow passed. With a soft breath, her face bloomed again into the sweet, innocent charm everyone knew.

Turning back into the classroom, her gaze fell on the handsome, gentle teacher, still patiently reviewing his students' work.

She returned to her seat, lifting her sketchpad to begin mixing colors. Beneath the board, however, her eyes hid a storm of emotions only she herself could understand. It was impossible for her to look away from the man's silhouette, even for a heartbeat. He was sketching corrections on another student's drawing, and a sudden, inexplicable wave of jealousy surged through her. But she was already too skilled at restraint; no trace of her turmoil showed on her delicate face.

Her eyes lingered on his ever-smiling lips, and her palm unconsciously tightened. She knew it too well—she wanted that smile to be hers, and hers alone.

Seventeen years old, a girl at the edge of her first love, easily swayed and wounded. Today, because of Nhu Ha's arrival, the calm that Bach My thought she had prepared herself for was disturbed once more.

But when the teacher's gaze finally swept down toward her paper, Bach My's heart jolted. In that instant, her entire being softened. Her lips curved into the bright, radiant smile everyone was used to, as she sweetly lifted her sample color palette and asked in the gentlest tone:

"Teacher, do you think I've mixed these shades well enough?"