Chapter 18: “Old Sister” Are You Tired?
The book cafe in Hanoi is a stage. The laughter, the clinking of glasses, . Ngan sits in the center of that stage, a brilliant flower. Her smile is measured perfectly, her voice is gentle enough, her eyes are warm enough. She is acting, a perfect role of a sister loved by everyone.
But no one saw, or no one wanted to see, the emptiness behind those eyes. No one saw the moment her smile faltered as she looked out the window. No one heard her almost inaudible sigh between the laughter of the crowd.
But Quan saw. He sat in a hidden corner, away from the noise, like a scientist observing a social experiment. He did not participate. He analyzed. The cup of tea in his hand was just a prop to disguise his absolute concentration. He did not look at Tung, the muscular beast entwined next to Ngan. He did not look at Minh, the peacock spreading its tail. He only looked at Ngan. He looked at the microscopic cracks in her perfect mask.
Ngan made an excuse to go outside to answer the phone. An excuse to breathe. She stood on the balcony, leaning against the cold railing, looking down at the lifeless traffic below. She took off her mask. Her face no longer had a smile, only bare fatigue.
A shadow appeared silently beside her. Quan. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t break the silence right away. He just stood there, also looking down at the traffic, as if they were two strangers sharing a weary moment. Then he spoke, his voice low and slightly sarcastic, a nickname he never used in the presence of others.
“Hello ‘old lady’.”
Ngan was a little startled, but quickly put part of her mask back on. “Hello, little brother. Why aren’t you in there joining in the fun?”
Quan did not look at her. His voice was calm and cold as a scalpel.
“Is acting tiring?”
The question wasn’t a question. It was a slap. A blow to the truth she was trying to hide. Ngan’s entire body stiffened. The polite smile she had just put on shattered. For the first time, someone wasn’t looking at her body or her grace. He was looking at her exhaustion. She turned, her eyes narrowed, searching.
What are you saying?
Quan finally turned to look at her. A very slight, almost invisible smile crossed his lips. His eyes behind the glasses were deep and emotionless.
“I see you’re unhappy. That’s all.”
He had thrown a challenge. Not a physical challenge or a rebellion. But a challenge of the mind. The game had begun with an unexpected move. And Ngan, instead of anger, felt a dangerous curiosity. This prey was different.
Ngan chose a Japanese tea house. A deliberate move. She wanted to pull Quan away from the noisy environment, where clever words could be just showing off, and place him in a space of silence. A test. She wanted to see if this young man was truly profound, or just playing a different role.
But this was Quan’s home. This silence was his environment. The space was minimalist, just wood, paper, and stone. Not a single detail was superfluous. The scent of green tea and old wood blended together, pure. The only sound was the trickling of water from a small bamboo tube. He sat across from her on the tatami mat, his back straight, completely at ease. He performed the steps of making tea, each gesture slow, precise, and methodical. Holding the teapot, rinsing the cups, pouring the tea, it was all a ritual. A display of control.
Ngan watched him, trying to find an opening. But there was none. He was the perfect image of calm. The battle of wits had begun before a word was spoken.
Quan poured a cup of jade green tea and pushed it towards Ngan. He didn’t look at her, only at the rippling stream of tea.
“The other day on the balcony, I asked the ‘old lady’ if her acting was tiring.” He paused, then slowly raised his head. His gaze, through his glasses, was as sharp as a scalpel, piercing straight into her eyes. “Today I’ll ask you a different question. Between a raging storm and a calm lake without a ripple, which do you fear more?”
The smile on Ngan’s lips froze. That question, it was unrelated, but it hit somewhere deep. A psychological test in disguise. “What a strange question. Why do you ask?”
Quan took a sip of tea, his eyes still fixed on her, a look of domination. “Just answer.”
The silence of the tea room became heavy. Ngan was forced to look inside herself. She thought of the trips, the fun, the chaos she had always sought. Then she thought of the afternoons alone in the apartment, when all sound was silenced. She shivered.
“… I’m afraid of the lake.” Her voice trailed off. “The storm, it will pass anyway. But the still lake… it’s like death. No life, no movement. Scary.”
Jun nodded slightly. An almost imperceptible nod. A nearly invisible smile crossed his lips. He didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. He had his first data point. His hypothesis was confirmed: she wasn’t afraid of chaos, she was afraid of emptiness. Her core fear was boredom.
Ngan felt a chill. He wasn’t just talking to her. He was reading her. And she felt as if she had been stripped of her first layer, naked and seen through.
They strolled around Hoan Kiem Lake. The cool evening air carried the mist from the lake. The yellow streetlights cast long streaks of light on the water, giving the familiar scene a slightly romantic feel. But their stroll was not a date.
They walked in silence for a long time. It wasn’t awkward. It was a silence of understanding, of people who didn’t need words to fill the space. It was comfortable.
Quan broke the silence, but not with a small talk. His voice was steady, like a researcher continuing his work.
“Next question for the ‘old lady’.”
Ngan smiled softly, a smile that was familiar with his method. “Again? Can’t you talk normally like everyone else?”
“Anyone can talk normally.” He paused, turning to look at her. The streetlights reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes, but she could still feel his concentration. “If you had to choose a scent to describe sadness, what would it be?”
His question was a hole again, forcing her to look in. She stopped, looking out at the distant lake, where the reflected lights shimmered like broken stars. She thought about her sadness. It wasn’t the smell of tears. It wasn’t the smell of alcohol. It was something else, quieter.
“The smell of paper.” Her voice dropped. “The smell of old books in an empty library on a rainy afternoon. It’s not a sad smell. It’s the smell of beautiful loneliness, of worlds you can escape to, but still know you’re alone.”
When she finished speaking, she felt as if she had revealed a secret too big, too private. She felt naked.
At that moment, a motorbike roared past them, shattering the silence. An intrusion into the real world. Quan reflexively reached out, not to take her hand, but to gently pull her elbow toward the curb, away from the motorbike. A very quick, very polite, almost accidental touch.
But it wasn’t accidental. A small electric current ran down both of their spines. It was the first time they had touched each other. A brief physical contact in a conversation entirely mental.
They continued walking. Quan did not comment on her answer. He did not need to. He had “smelled” her sadness. And she knew he understood. That understanding, heavier than any words of comfort.
In Quan’s classic sedan, on the way to take Ngan home. Hanoi was asleep, the streets were quiet, only the yellow streetlights passed by, casting long shadows on the car windows.
They did not speak to each other all the way. But the silence was not awkward. It was a silence of understanding, of acceptance. Everything that needed to be said had been said. All the masks had been removed. There were only two naked souls, sitting side by side in a closed space.
The car stopped in front of Ngan’s luxury apartment complex. She didn’t rush out. She turned to look at Quan, at his shadow in the dim light. Her voice was sincere, without any hint of drama.
“Thank you… for listening.”
Quan did not look at her. He stared straight ahead at the dark road. His voice was low and even, a cold correction.
“I’m not just listening. I’m reading.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air. Then he turned, and in the darkness of the car, she felt his deep gaze boring into her.
“And I think, this book still has the last chapter.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. He had her, and he knew the answer. He extended an invitation, an invitation not for a date, but for completion.
“This weekend, go to Tam Dao with me. Read the last chapter.”
That invitation was both intellectual and naked, and for Ngan at that moment, it was deadly seductive. It did not promise Tung’s protection or Minh’s rebellion. It promised a truth. A truth about herself.
A real smile, the first unfeigned smile of the evening, appeared on Ngan’s lips.
“Okay.”
The deal was made. The stage of the mist and the ancient mansion was set. The psychological game was over. Now it was time for a physical experiment.