The road up to the misty plateau made Khoi feel like he was going back into a dream. The winding curves, the old pine trees standing guard on both sides of the road, the cold wind seeping into his skin made the thought of "little An" even more real — and also more frightening.

He could not forget the last line in Linh's letter:

"Go find little An. She is still alive."

The Tinh Hoa Special Care Center for Children is hidden on Da Quy hill, nearly 10km from the city centre. This place used to be an old French monastery, then turned into a nursing home, and then one day — like most secrets — it became a place to store hidden lives.

The person in charge was a woman named Van, in her thirties, whose eyes were not used to looking directly at others.

"Are you... a relative of little An?" she asked, her voice suspicious and wary.

"I am her father." Khoi said, without beating around the bush.

Van's face was slightly shocked, but she quickly hid it.

"An has been here for six years. The person who brought her to sign was Mrs. Hoang — her grandmother on paper. No one has visited her since then. She... was diagnosed with a mild congenital heart syndrome, but is currently stable."

Khoi clenched his fists.

"Can I see her?"

The small room at the end of the hallway was painted a pale white. Inside, there were a few children's drawings on the wall — mostly of two-story houses, big trees, blue skies, and a man standing in the distance.

The girl was sitting on the floor, drawing with coloured pencils. Her hair was cut short, her face was small like a sketch, but her eyes... strangely resembled Linh's.

When he entered, she raised her head and stopped.

"Uncle Khoi." – she called, not at all surprised.

Khoi was stunned.

"I... know you?"

"Mom told me. In a dream. Mom said I was forgetful but not bad. Mom said I saved Mom, then forgot."

"You dreamed about Mom?" – his voice was hoarse.

"Mom said when you remembered everything, you would bring me back. But you didn't remember, right?" – the girl tilted her head. "I forgot a lot too. Especially the screams on the third floor."

A shiver ran down Khoi's spine.

"You remember the third floor?"

"Because there was someone there... screaming."

When he left An's room, Ms. Van handed him a copy of the inpatient record — which had a note in red pen:

"Patient transferred from an unidentified civilian facility. Ms. Hoang signed on behalf of her deceased mother, but they are not related by blood."

"Psychological condition: remembering details that are not real. Repeatedly drawing the image of a three-story house with a shadow in the window."

"Request no contact with old relatives. Special monitoring."

Below was the signature of the head doctor: Nguyen Duy Thanh.

Khoi was stunned.

Nguyen Duy Thanh — his uncle.

At the end of the chapter, in a dark office in Saigon, Mr. Nghia was flipping through a newly sent photo. In the photo, Khoi was standing next to little An. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes were burning with a rare flash of worry.

"Khoi has begun to remember." – he whispered.

"Cancel the monitoring order. Send someone to Da Lat. Don't let him take the girl away from there."

A figure in the corner of the room nodded. His eyes lit up — cold, and familiar.

It was the person who had left the medical record envelope.