Chapter 19: Castle in the Mist
Inside Quan’s classic sedan was another world. There was no smell of cheap car perfume. Just old leather, polished wood, and time. The dashboard was minimalist, no touchscreen, just physical buttons and an old radio playing a soothing instrumental song. The car was a cocoon, a cozy space, separating them from the noisy world outside.
They were on their way to Tam Dao. Ngan sat in the passenger seat, her hands resting lightly on the windowsill, quietly watching the scenery pass by. The tall buildings of Hanoi receded, giving way to flat fields, then winding slopes. She felt a strange peace, a peace she never felt when traveling with Tung or Minh. The peace came from silence. Quan drove calmly, both hands on the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. His silence was not awkward. It had weight, it was understanding.
For most of the trip, they said nothing. They didn’t need to. The silence between them was a conversation.
Ngan was the one to break it first, her voice soft, blending with the music.
“This car… really suits you.”
Quan glanced at her, just for a moment, a very slight smile on his lips. “It’s old, needs care, and not for people in a hurry. Like some I know.”
A comment about both the car and herself. Ngan just smiled, not replying. As the car entered a sharp turn, her body leaned slightly to one side by inertia. Her shoulder lightly touched his. A very normal touch, lasting only a second, but in this quiet and conscious space, it became extremely clear. A brief flash of physical awareness in a journey of the mind. They both felt it, but neither said anything.
As they began to climb, the fog began to roll in. At first, it was just a thin layer, but it gradually thickened, swallowing the road, the trees, and the world. The air in the car seemed to thicken as well. The escape from the real world had officially begun. They were entering a land of fog, a world of their own.
The car emerged from the mist, and the villa appeared. It didn’t look like a resort. It looked like something forgotten by time. An old French villa, with vine-covered stone walls, tall, thin windows, and a tiled roof that had turned the deep brown of the past. It stood there, silent, indistinct in the thick mist, like some ancient beast sleeping.
Quan parked the car. The moment they stepped out, silence fell. An almost absolute silence, broken only by the sound of the wind rustling through the old pine trees. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth, moss, and a distant past. Ngan shivered involuntarily, not entirely from the cold. There was a mysterious charm to this place, a beauty of oblivion.
“Where did you find this place?” she whispered, as if afraid to disturb a thousand-year sleep. “It looks like something out of a horror movie.”
Quan chuckled, his breath creating a thin mist in the cold air. His eyes sparkled mysteriously. “This is where people come to forget the real world. Or to face it. It’s up to you, old lady.”
They entered the main hall. It was even quieter inside than outside. The ceiling was high, lost in the darkness. The old wooden floor creaked under their footsteps, and their voices echoed throughout the vast space. A large stone fireplace at the end of the hall was burning brightly, the only source of light and warmth. The flames danced, casting distorted, flickering shadows on the walls. There was no one in sight, only an old, white-haired receptionist sitting motionless behind the wooden counter, like a wax statue.
They took their keys and walked down a long, dark corridor. The dim light from the wall lamps did little to dispel the darkness. Their footsteps were the only sound, echoing on the wooden floor, like the beat of a ritual about to begin. The feeling of isolation was growing stronger. They were not just far from the city. They were in another time, another reality, where the rules of the outside world no longer applied.
The resort’s dining room was a space forgotten by time. The ceiling was high, the heavy wooden tables and chairs were placed far apart, and the only light came from the flickering candles on the tables. Besides their table, there was only one other couple sitting in a far corner, immersed in darkness. The atmosphere was solemn and lonely. The silence was so heavy that the sound of their knives and forks on the porcelain plates echoed, becoming a monotonous and dull background music.
The meal moved slowly. Every gesture was magnified in the silence. The way Quan lifted his glass, the way Ngan cut a piece of steak, all became part of a silent ritual. Their conversation was no longer analytical. It became more personal, but that did not make Ngan comfortable.
What confused her was not the words. But Quan’s eyes.
He looked at her without blinking. It wasn’t Tung’s lustful gaze, nor Minh’s challenging gaze. It was a deep, cold, focused gaze. The gaze of a scientist examining a specimen under a microscope. It was as if he were trying to read her soul through her retina, through every layer, every smile, every defense. She felt naked, even though she was still wearing a modest woolen dress. She kept having to look away, focusing on the steak, on the glass of wine, but then she was pulled back by that gaze, like a butterfly pinned to a board.
Quan took a sip of wine, then put the glass down. His voice was low and even.
“The wine here is not very good.”
“Is that so? I think it’s fine.” Ngan replied, trying to keep her composure, an effort to regain some control.
“It lacks the ‘crack,’” he said, his eyes never leaving her. “A good wine should have a little imperfection, a little unexpected tannin on the finish. Like people.”
He wasn’t talking about the wine. He was talking about her. He was saying that he saw her “cracks,” and that was what interested him. Dinner was over. Ngan felt a little dizzy, but not from the wine. She was dizzy from the penetration of Quan’s gaze. All her defenses had been broken. All her secrets seemed to be exposed. He wasn’t just reading her. He was decoding her. And that decoding was about to end.
After dinner, they didn’t go to their rooms. They moved into the foyer, where a large stone fireplace was blazing. The orange glow was the only source of light, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. They sat on two old leather armchairs, facing each other, with a small table and two glasses of brandy between them. The rest of the foyer was dark, a private space, a warm cocoon from the outside world, where the wind still whistled.
They didn’t say much. The battle of wits seemed over. All questions had been asked, all layers had been peeled back. Now it was time for silence. They just sipped their drinks and stared at the fire. The flames danced, licking the logs, making a small, steady crackling sound. The sound, combined with the whistling wind outside, made a hypnotic soundtrack.
Ngan looked at him, then back at the fire. The light reflected off his glasses and his angular face, making him seem both mysterious and approachable. She no longer felt the need to say or do anything. She didn’t have to act. She simply existed in that moment, a strange peace, a complete acceptance. The burden of being someone else was lifted.
The silence stretched, a heavy but not uncomfortable silence. Quan suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse over the crackling of the fire. He did not look at her. He looked at the dancing flames, as if talking to himself.
“Do you know, that your silence is sometimes more seductive than any words, ‘old sister’?”
The sentence hung in the air. It wasn’t a flirtation. It was a conclusion. An admission that the psychological game was over. He had read her in the silences, in the pauses, in what she didn’t say. He had won.
The room fell completely silent, the crackling of the fire seemed to fade. The tension had reached its peak. The mind games were over. Now there was only one tension left, a physical tension. And it was waiting for an action to break it.
Quan’s words still hung in the air, heavy. Ngan heard every word. She didn’t reply. She just smiled. A very small smile, almost invisible, but it held everything. She understood. The game was over. He had won. And now it was time to hand out the prizes.
She slowly set her wine glass down on the table. The glass clinked against the wood, a small, sharp sound, the only sound breaking the hypnotic silence of the fire and the wind. Then she stood. She did not walk toward the stairs. She walked in front of him, who was still sitting there, watching her.
In absolute silence, she held out her hand. A silent invitation. An offering. A deliberate surrender.
Quan looked up. He looked at the hand hovering in front of him, then up at her eyes. Her gaze was no longer scrutinizing or defensive. There was only acceptance, pure and simple. He put down his glass too, and took her hand. His hand wasn’t burning like Tung’s, it was cool and firm. The grip of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
He stood up, still holding her hand. They didn’t need to say another word. They walked together, away from the light of the fireplace, into the darkness of the main hall. They climbed the old wooden stairs, and each step echoed in the empty space, “creak, creak”, like the drumbeat of an ancient ritual. The weak yellow light cast their shadows on the wall, forming strange, distorted shapes, like two souls walking towards their destiny.
They stopped in front of a large wooden door. Quan took a key from his pocket, an old brass key, and inserted it into the lock. There was a dry metallic click. He pushed the door open, revealing a deep, silent darkness inside.
He did not enter. He stood aside, his hand still held hers, a gesture of concession. The invitation accepted. Now it was time for her, of her own volition, to cross the final threshold. To enter the final chapter of the book.