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By the time the sun climbed over the river’s bend, An was already on her second basket of ginger.
She sat just behind her father’s stall, a low stool beneath her and her hands working quietly. Her younger brother, Khai, now tall enough to carry his own weight, stacked limes
beside her. Trương watched them both as he bartered with a noodle vendor—half in words, half in glances. The stall had grown, just like the family.
An no longer looked like a girl. Not quite a woman in full, but her posture carried the grace of someone who knew where she belonged. Her hair was tied back with the same cloth her
mother once used to carry rice. Her eyes missed nothing. Not the short weights. Not the sly smiles of the other merchants. And not the young man who paused too long near the
sugarcane press.
He came on Thursdays.
Sometimes Tuesdays, but always Thursdays.
He said little. Carried things for his mother. Waited as she chose mangos. Sometimes helped an older woman lift a heavy bundle. He never looked at An directly. But he always
noticed her. And she—quietly, steadily—noticed him back.
His name was Tín.
Khai noticed too. He was only eight, but brothers know these things. That morning, as they packed away the leftover shallots, he leaned in and whispered, “He’s here again.”
An said nothing. But her cheeks warmed, and she turned toward the papayas as if one needed inspecting.
Trương saw it too. But he said nothing. Not yet.
Instead, he watched the way the boy moved. Not just near An—but near others. He watched how he lifted with both hands. How he stepped back when an elder spoke. How he bent slightly, even when his words were firm.
There was something steady in the boy.
That evening, as they walked home with empty baskets and tired feet, Trương fell in step beside his daughter.
“You did well today,” he said.
An nodded.
He added nothing. He didn’t need to. She knew his words were never wasted.
After dinner, while Vui chattered and Khai dozed oA mid-sentence, An stepped outside and sat on the worn bench beneath the jackfruit tree. The stars blinked above the thatched roof. A wind stirred the edge of the world.
She didn’t know why she kept thinking about him. She only knew that something in his presence calmed the questions she hadn’t yet asked.
And without meaning to, she whispered the only word that kept returning.
“Tín.”
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