Chapter 2 — Between Two Worlds: A Bride Exchanged for a Dumpling

Throughout the next day, Thua An returned to the abandoned warehouse countless times, placing his hand on the wooden cabinet door, waiting for the pale blue light to reappear. But the cabinet remained as silent as an inanimate block of wood, with no signs that it had ever been a portal to another world. For a moment he wondered if he had imagined it all, until his hand touched the sturdy piece of white paper hidden in his shirt—the only proof that last night had not been a hungry dream.

He sat down on the cold ground, trying to remember the strange feeling of understanding that had passed through his mind when he touched the door. It was not a sentence, not a clear command, but more like a vague image that appeared and then disappeared - the image of two hands holding each other on a simple dining table, the image of a roof with kitchen smoke, laughter, a connection that a loner like him could not create on his own. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became of one thing: that gate did not lack magic, it lacked a true home.

That thought made him laugh dryly, a laugh that had no joy in it at all. In the midst of the Year of the Great Hunger, when people were not sure if they would live until tomorrow, he was thinking about getting married as a possible solution to save a mystical gate. It sounds so wild. But he had nothing to lose, and if that gate was real - if it could really bring food and medicine from a prosperous place to save the whole village of Bai Tro - then no matter how wild it was, he had to try.

He searched his temporary residence, a small corner in the dilapidated kitchen next to the warehouse, where he hid his most valuable remaining possession: a small handful of flour that he had been saving for more than ten days, saving from labor exchanges for a few handfuls of flour from a family that was still able to survive thanks to food reserves from before the drought. He planned to save that handful of powder, steam it little by little, prolonging his life for that day or so. But this morning, he decided to use up all the remaining dough, light a fire, and steam it into a round, white dumpling - a luxury he had never dared to think about all month.

The hot dumpling, steaming in his skinny palm as he walked out of the kitchen wing, headed towards the poor remaining market at the beginning of the village - where people no longer did much selling, only gathered to exchange a few trivial things, or simply sat together waiting for a miracle that never came.

It was there, under the shade of a dry, leafless tree, that he saw her.

A young girl, probably in her early twenties, sat crouched on the side of the road, her patched shirt not enough to cover her skinny body to the point that each shoulder bone clearly protruded through the thin fabric. Her hair was messy, matted with sweat and road dust, her eyes were closed, her dry, cracked lips were parted as if trying to breathe her last remaining breaths. No one bothered to stop and look at her — in a place where everyone was struggling to fight for their own lives, a starving girl on the side of the road was no longer anything worth paying attention to.

But Thua An stopped.

I don't know why. Perhaps because her face, though pitifully haggard, still held a certain delicateness, a faint trace of a life that had been full before the Year of the Great Hunger came and took everything away. Perhaps because her hand, although shaking from exhaustion, was still trying to hold tightly to a small piece of cloth wrapped around her wrist - perhaps the last memento of a loved one who was no longer there.

He knelt down next to her, without thinking much, broke the warm dumpling in half and brought it close to her lips.

"Girl, eat something."

His voice was hoarse because he hadn't talked to anyone for a long time, but gentle enough not to scare her. The girl opened her eyes, her vision blurred from hunger gradually gathering, seeing the white dumpling in front of her as if she was seeing an illusion. Perhaps she herself thought she was dreaming, because in the midst of this Great Hunger Year, who else would be kind enough to give such a precious thing to a stranger without asking for anything.

But she still reached out with trembling hands to take it, took a small bite, chewed slowly as if afraid that swallowing too quickly would cause her stomach, accustomed to hunger, to protest. Tears rolled down her haggard cheeks, not from pain, but from something beyond simple gratitude — the feeling of being treated like a human being, in a world that had forgotten what kindness was.

"Thank you... thank you, sir," she whispered, her voice so weak that it almost melted into the wind. "If it weren't for you, maybe I would have..."

She didn't finish her sentence, but Thua An understood. He sat down next to her, waited for her to finish the remaining half of the cake, then quietly asked her name.

"Tham Tieu Mien," she replied, wiping her tears. "My parents passed away last winter. I still have a younger sister, but they've been lost since the whole family had to run away from food robbers... I don't know if she's still alive or not."

Her story, even though it's only a few short sentences, is enough for Thua An to imagine the tragic picture behind a lonely young girl in this deadly market. He was silent for a moment, then decided to say what he was thinking, even though he knew how sudden it sounded.

"Miss Tham," he said, his voice careful, "I know this is a sudden request, but I need a wife. Not because... not for the usual reasons. I have a chance, a way to be able to find food, medicine, to save not only myself but also everyone else in the village. But that chance will only come true if I have a real home — a marriage. I have no bride price, nothing to offer. give you in addition to the half of the dumpling you just ate, and the promise that I will treat you as kindly as possible."

Tieu Mien looked at him, her eyes were still wet but a little alert again. She didn't ask what the opportunity he mentioned was - perhaps in this moment, a clear explanation was no longer as important as having a place to rely on, someone who didn't see her as a burden or a commodity.

"You don't need to explain much, my lord," she said, her voice a little firmer. "At this time, I'm lucky to still be alive for a day. If you don't criticize me for being ruined, I... I'm satisfied."

There was no matchmaking, no bride price, no drums or trumpets. Right in the middle of that poor market, under the silent witness of a few passersby who were also struggling with hunger, Thua An helped Tieu Mien up and walked with her towards the abandoned warehouse where he lived. On the way, he stopped by the house of an old man in the village - the only one who still retained some prestige because he had been a teacher of literacy before the famine struck - asking him to witness a simple worship ceremony: an old wooden table, two cups of water instead of rose wine, and a short blessing from a hungry old man who still tried to stand firm to witness two young people holding hands through the most difficult moment of his life.

"I bow to heaven and earth," the old man said tremblingly, his voice broken by weak breathing. "Second bow to high court... third bow, husband and wife bow."

Thua An and Tieu Mien bowed their heads to every word he said. There was no gorgeous wedding dress, no fireworks, just two strangers who had just decided to tie their lives together in the midst of extreme poverty. When the two raised their heads, their eyes met for a brief moment, Thua An saw in Tieu Mien's eyes a fragile light - not really hope, but a cautious trust, a reckless decision of someone who had nothing left to lose.

He wasn't sure whether this hasty marriage would actually awaken the strange gate in the warehouse or not. He also didn't know whether he was taking advantage of a poor girl's desperation to serve his own survival. But as he helped Tieu Mien cross the threshold of the dilapidated kitchen wing - which would now be their common home - he told himself one thing was certain: whether the gate was revived or not, he would not let this woman regret placing her trust in a stranger just for half a dumpling.

That night, when Tieu Mien fell asleep from exhaustion on the torn mat spread out in the corner of the kitchen, Thua An quietly walked out to the warehouse and placed his hand on the old wooden cabinet door. Nothing happened immediately. But under his palm, he felt a very gentle warmth, like the heartbeat of a sleeping creature suddenly stirring, as if the gate had sensed what had just happened, and was waiting, cautious but no longer completely silent like before.