The oil lamp guttered out with a soft snuff, and the rain returned, pattering on the broken roof. In the dark, a single tear rolled down his face whether from pain or farewell, I could not tell.
The rain began to fall harder, striking the corrugated tin like a taut, jangling drum. I still knelt beside him, my shaking hand trying to press the wound on his brow, but the blood would not stop, hot one moment, then shockingly cold the next.
The cramped room seemed to shrink around us, filled only with the smell of blood, the scent of incense, and the ragged breath he drew.
Then Mrs. Han burst in from outside, hair disheveled, bare feet muddy, clutching a scrap of cloth. "Good heavens, what is this?" she cried hoarsely into the rain, then called out into the alley, "Village head! Someone call the police! Somebody come help, someone's been killed!"
Dogs barked, houses lit and doors swung open. The men who had attacked him fled in haste, their feet slapping the wet ground, their curses swallowed by Mrs. Han's shouts like a pack of rats scurrying away.
She hurried to lift me to my feet, voice trembling: "Mai An, are you all right? My God is Nam still breathing?"
I could not answer, only sob, clutching him. He lay still, lips turning bluish, blood spreading across the wooden boards.
Mrs. Han shouted for neighbors, "Hòa! Chi Uyen! Come quick, help!"
Soon a few neighbors came running, each with a task one with a lamp, another with a basin of water. No one had a motorbike; in this poor neighborhood there was only Mr. Hạnh's old ox-cart to borrow.
They called Mr. Hạnh. The cart wheels clattered into the night, the sound of wood on stone mingling with the rain like the land itself choking back a sob.
Carefully, the men lifted him onto a plank and laid a clean mat beneath him. He lay motionless, blood still seeping from his eye and nostrils. I gripped his hand and walked beside the cart.
Mrs. Han went ahead, holding the oil lamp, murmuring prayers under her breath: "Poor things... why must they suffer so?"
The ox pulled slowly; the wheels scraped through puddles. Each jolt made his body shudder, and my heart felt as if it were cracking.
No one spoke only the rain, the cart wheels grinding the earth, and the short, strained breaths he drew. The tiny hospital gate appeared in the night, its yellow light flickering. The night nurse saw us and gasped, then rushed out to help. They carried him inside.
I stayed on the porch, chilled to the bone, my hands sticky with blood, my legs trembling. Mrs. Han put a hand on my shoulder, voice thick: "Don't cry. He's lucky to be alive. Your mother… she's been cruel."
The smell of blood and rain clung in the air. I watched the ward door close and felt that same hollow emptiness. I knew one thing: that night he had lost one eye, and I had lost the last sliver of light inside me.
The rain kept falling, streaking down the old windowpane. The antiseptic scent mixed with the cotton of bandages made my head swim. Day after day I sat there at his bedside, hands clamped around his rough work-worn hand, now cold as ice.
He did not wake. White bandages covered his head and cheek; his left eye was bandaged. Each time I looked at him my chest tightened as if someone were slicing deep into me.
Mrs. Han sat on a plastic chair nearby, clutching a plastic bag with some thin porridge, her voice hoarse: "I've paid his hospital fees. Keep the room on my tab. God's kind where would these poor kids get the money?"
She sighed and took a folded bill from her pocket, placing it on the table: "Lucky the doctor had mercy and reduced the bill. If we can save the other eye, that's a blessing."
I did not dare ask more; I only bowed my head, hands trembling as I tried to steady myself. A tear slipped from his eye.
After a little while he stirred. His right eyelid twitched, then opened. His gaze drifted, vague and blurred, until it found me.
I burst into tears, no words could come, only salt sliding into his hand.
He asked nothing, not how it happened, not why he was there, not who had done it only silence. His lips trembled and then stilled as he squeezed my hand, afraid that if he let go I might vanish.
A tear fell from his right eye the single tear he seemed to have in him and darkened the sheet.
Through sobs I whispered, "Don't cry. I'm sorry. It's all my fault."
He stayed silent. One trembling hand lifted to touch my cheek, tracing the path of my tears. I pressed his fingers to my face.
He exhaled, a weak, dying breath: "Can you still see me?"
I asked, my voice shaking.
He nodded faintly, though his gaze held only half its light.
Mrs. Han, wiping her eyes in the corner, rose and pulled the curtain closed: "Let him rest. Mai An, go back to your room and wash up. You haven't eaten all night — I'm worn out."
I shook my head, clutching tight—
End of Chapter 15