FICTION

Late in the afternoon at the end of July, sunlight slanted through the leaves, casting dappled shadows onto the moss-tinted brick courtyard. Old Mr. Nam sat silently on a bamboo cot beneath the veranda. His coarse, sinewy hands slowly lifted a teapot of green tea and poured it into a ceramic cup with a chipped rim. The tea had cooled, its subtle fragrance wafting in the soft breeze, blending with the faint scent of incense drifting from the ancestral altar—like a whisper from the past.

On the altar stood a newly framed photograph, carefully placed in a rosewood frame. The face in the photo was dignified, its features strong and resolute, and the eyes radiated an unexpected warmth. It was the face of his father—the man who had fallen over half a century ago—yet a face Nam had never truly seen in its entirety. The photo had been redrawn from memory, from a faded sketch his mother had commissioned before her death, now brought to life by the young generation through modern technology.

Nam reached out and gently touched the photograph, his voice soft as the wind: “Father… I’ve finally done it…”

He couldn’t quite recall the last time he had cried. Was it when his mother passed away? Or the day he buried his last friend? But the moment he received that restored portrait, the tears came. Late, uncontrollable tears, bursting forth like a dam breaking after years of restraint.

That night, he stayed awake, sitting beneath the golden shower tree at the alley’s entrance. His father had planted that tree when he had married his mother. Now its canopy stretched wide, shading a patch of sky. The falling yellow leaves blanketed the yard — and his memories. Every summer, the blossoms rained down like golden drops, yet inside him, a void remained, something no season could fill.

He remembered that one summer — when he was just seven. His father returned from the Trường Sơn battlefield, wearing a frayed military uniform, a dusty pith helmet on his head. That man lifted him high, laughing heartily, as if war had never existed. But he still remembered — at nightfall, his parents sat murmuring on the veranda. His mother Bình’s face beamed, but her eyes glistened with sadness. Because they both knew — this might be the last time.

And it was.

That winter, the winds turned, and gray clouds shrouded the sky. A soldier came with a sealed letter marked in red. His mother opened it, then collapsed beside the cold hearth. A death notice — harsh, emotionless lines announcing that her husband had fallen in a major battle in the southern front.

In just one night, her hair turned gray. But then she stood again — stronger than anyone thought possible. She carried the burden of raising four children through the lean seasons, through hunger that turned their eyes white. Every time he fell, she reminded him: “You are the son of Uncle Hồ’s soldier. Don’t let the dead be ashamed of you.”

At eighteen, Nam volunteered to join the army. As a martyr’s son, he was given special permission to stay in the village. But he refused. He went, just as his father did. His mother didn’t stop him — she simply prepared a humble meal, placed a hen in an areca sheath, and walked with him all the way to the old banyan tree at the village gate.

“Go fight, then come back… Don’t be like your father, who left and never returned… I’ll wait.”

Those words followed him through the years, over mountain passes and through forests thick with the stench of gunpowder. He returned — bringing back memories and the pain of the living.

When peace restored, Nam became the Commander of the Commune’s Military Unit. A soldier all his life, he upheld strict discipline. He was stern, uncompromising. Anyone who tried to avoid conscription without proper grounds was refused.

“The army shapes a man,” he would say.

Both of his sons had to serve, train, and only afterward were they allowed to study.

He believed that only through hardship one could truly treasure peace.

But then, when his grandson came of age, Nam felt betrayed. His eldest son didn’t force the boy to enlist. Nam was so upset, he refused to speak to that side of the family for three whole months. In him simmered sorrow and fear — that the sacred had faded with time.

But then, on his father’s death anniversary, the whole family gathered. The grandson — the one who had wounded him most — was the very person who brought him to tears. Quietly, the boy brought out the restored portrait, its glass frame still carrying a scent of newness, and bowed as he handed it over: “Grandpa, this is great-grandpa… I had it redrawn from an old sketch. I wanted you to have a photo to remember him by…”

Nam said nothing. His hands trembled as he took it. He wept. And for the first time, he saw in his grandson’s eyes the image of his father — quiet, proud, and devoted in his own way.

From that day, Nam changed. He no longer scolded, no longer brooded over.

….

(Self-translation from VIETNAMESE)

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