The incense still burned above Thien Trang's altar, a thin thread of smoke twisting into the night. Beneath it, the scent of blood was sharp, metallic so strong it stung my eyes. I fell to my knees, my hands trembling as I held him. His skin was cold. "Ngo Nhat Nam," I whispered, my voice breaking, "open your eyes. Please… just once more."
The oil lamp flickered weakly, then died with a soft hiss. Only the rain answered, steady, relentless, drumming on the tin roof. In the half-darkness, I saw a tear slip from the corner of his eye. I couldn't tell if it was pain… or goodbye.
The rain grew heavier, tapping faster, louder, as if the heavens themselves had begun to weep. I pressed my shaking hand against the wound on his forehead, but the blood would not stop. It ran warm between my fingers, then cooled into something sticky and lifeless.
The little room seemed to collapse around us, a cage of shadows, filled with the bitter smell of incense, blood, and fear.
Then came the sound of footsteps splashing through puddles. Mrs. Han burst through the doorway, her hair soaked, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God, what happened?" she screamed, then turned toward the alley. "Help! Somebody call the police! Someone's been hurt!"
Dogs began barking. Doors creaked open one after another. Lamps flared to life down the narrow lane. The men who had beaten him ran off into the rain, their curses fading, their steps clattering on the wet ground like frightened rats fleeing a flood.
Mrs. Han knelt beside me, voice trembling. "Mai An… are you all right? Oh dear God, is Nam still breathing?"
I couldn't speak. Only sobs came out. My arms were locked around him, afraid that if I let go, he'd slip away completely. His lips were pale, his blood pooling beneath him, the color fading from his face.
"Someone get Hoa! And Chi Uyen! Hurry!" Mrs. Han shouted.
A few neighbors rushed in, bringing whatever they could, an oil lamp, a basin of water, a blanket. No one had a car or even a motorbike. In this neighborhood, the only thing with wheels was Mr. Hanh's old ox cart, usually used to haul bricks.
When they brought it, the wooden wheels groaned like something ancient. The men lifted him gently onto a plank, laid a mat beneath him, and covered his face from the rain. I followed beside the cart, holding his limp hand, whispering his name over and over.
Mrs. Han walked ahead, holding a flickering lamp, muttering prayers under her breath. "Oh Lord… poor children… what did they do to deserve this?"
The ox trudged slowly through the rain, its hooves slapping the mud. Every bump made his body shudder, and each time it did, I felt my heart tear a little more.
No one spoke. Only the sound of rain, the grinding of wheels, and his ragged breathing filled the night.
At last, the faint yellow glow of the county hospital appeared ahead, a lonely light trembling in the storm. The night nurse saw us coming and gasped. "Quickly!" she cried, rushing to open the door. They carried him inside, his blood leaving a dark trail on the floor.
I stood in the doorway, drenched, trembling, my hands still red. Mrs. Han put a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "Don't cry, child. He's alive, thank God for that. But your mother… she's gone too far."
The smell of disinfectant and blood hung heavy in the air. I watched the door close behind him and felt something inside me collapse, like a candle snuffed out. That night, he lost an eye. And I lost the last light I had left.
The days after blurred together, the same sterile room, the same smell of bandages and medicine. I sat beside him, holding his rough, calloused hand, still cold as stone. He didn't wake. His head was wrapped in white gauze; the left side of his face was hidden beneath thick bandages. Every time I looked at him, my chest ached like something was carving through it.
Mrs. Han brought porridge one evening, her eyes red and tired. "The doctor said the fee's been reduced," she murmured, placing a few crumpled bills on the table. "If they can save the other eye… that'll be a miracle."
I nodded weakly, my voice gone.
Then, one night, he stirred. His right eyelid fluttered open, slow, uncertain. His gaze wandered until it found me.
I burst into tears. There were no words left, only the sound of crying.
He didn't ask where he was, or what had happened, or why. He just reached for my hand, gripping it tightly as though afraid I might vanish.
A tear slid from his right eye, the only one he had left. It fell silently onto the bedsheet, darkening the white.
"Don't cry," I whispered, choking on my own voice. "Please. I'm sorry… this is all my fault."
He didn't answer. His hand trembled as he brushed my cheek, tracing the trail of tears down my skin. I pressed my face against his palm.
Then came his voice, faint as wind: "Can you still see me?"
"Yes," I said, though my voice broke.
He smiled barely. "Then that's enough."
Mrs. Han, who had been watching quietly, turned away, wiping her eyes. "Let him rest now, child. Go wash up. You've been here all night."
I shook my head. "I'll stay. If he wakes again and no one's here…"
She sighed deeply, pulling the curtain halfway closed. "Life is cruel, child. But don't let it take away your kindness."
When the door closed behind her, the room fell quiet again. The light from the window traced across his face, illuminating one eye, the only one that still looked at me.
And in that single eye, I saw everything he had left: pain, tenderness, and the last fragile spark of light that refused to die.