I hiccupped, trying to say something but my throat was a block of ice. He raised a hand but didn't touch me at once; his fingertips trembled as if afraid that the slightest contact would turn me to ash.
Then he drew me into his arms — not roughly, not hurriedly, just a slow, shaking, desperate embrace.
I felt his heart beating under his wet shirt. The rain hammered down, chaotic as if it might burst. His chin brushed my numb shoulder.
He said nothing, didn't ask who had done it, didn't ask why. He already knew. It was far too late for questions.I felt a drop fall from his shoulder — or was it a tear? — and mingle with the rain on my coat. I dared not lift my head; I simply stood there while he held me, while the trembling of our two bodies became one.
He still didn't speak; his face was buried against my shoulder, silent as if bracing against an unseen wound.Outside, rain drummed on the tin roof and the road. We listened, droplet by droplet, as if hearing the heartbeat of broken water.
The streetlight dimly lit his face. Rain and tears ran together — indistinguishable, neither wholly pain nor wholly pity.
All I could hear was the soft, choking sob in his chest, barely there but unmistakable. Each little hitch felt like it tore my heart to pieces.
I spoke in a voice splintered and small: "Don't look at me like that. Please."
He tightened his hold, his shaking hand pressing against my back, covering the bruises as if to hide them from the world.
I felt a hot drop fall on my shoulder — whether rain or tear, I could not tell.
We stood like that in the thick rain so long the wind itself seemed to stop. When I finally raised my head, he bent to place his hand on my hair and quietly said, "All right. Let's go home."
He led me through the wet, cold streets and the blinking lights. His jacket barely covered him; I was soaked through. The smell of cement and sweat mixed together — a familiar, safe scent that made me cry again.
Back at the house, he took an old towel and gently wiped my face as if afraid I might fall apart. Incense for Thiên Trang hovered lightly in the air, mingled with the sharp scent of medicated oil. The lamp flickered; its weak light washed his weary face and laid a hush over the room that hurt.
I sat on the old mat, trembling, wrapped in his worker's shirt. The rain outside had eased; only drops rhythmically fell from the eaves like a broken clock.
He took the damp towel and wiped the mud from my neck and shoulders. His movements were so careful, so tentative, that I feared a gust of wind might undo everything.
I wouldn't look at him. I only watched his fingers pause, trembling, above a purple bruise on my shoulder. No words, no sigh — only a silence that tightened my chest.
He poured a little medicated oil into his palm and rubbed it into the bruise. The sting was sharp, but I felt no pain. All I felt was my heart tearing.He asked in a hoarse whisper, "Does it hurt?"I didn't answer, only shook my head. Tears spilled and fell into his hand.
He froze for a moment, then drew me into his arms. That embrace held no consolation, no tears — only the clutch of someone terrified of losing the thing he loved most.
End of Chapter 13