Chapter 30 — Cartographer of Lost Roads

One year after the proposal under the banyan tree, on a clear spring morning, Van Khue sat in front of her familiar desk at the Map and Cadastral Documentation Department, where she has worked for the past six years. On the table, there was not an old map in need of digitization like the first days she started this story, but a completely new drawing — the latest master plan map of Kim Xuyen city, the first version to officially return Van Dang Hamlet to its correct historical position, not as an existing residential area, but as a solemnly marked heritage site, with the boundary of the Memorial Park and the Memory Gallery already in stable operation. for over a year.

The ring on her finger, now accompanied by a simple wedding ring, sparkled under the table lamp every time she bent down to examine every small detail on the drawing. Her and Duy Khanh's wedding took place last spring, a cozy ceremony attended by both families, Mrs. Nhai radiant in her new ao dai, Mrs. Net brought by her children and grandchildren even though her health was much weaker, Mr. Cung Ba Thinh, Mr. Khai, Bao Nghi, Kha Duy Thinh, and so many familiar faces who accompanied them through an unforgettable journey.

Mr. Tuyen, on that wedding day, stood up to speak, his voice trembling but full of pride, telling all the guests the story about the map, about Van Dang, about the journey his niece went through to bring the truth to light, and about how the love between her and Duy Khanh blossomed and grew in the midst of that arduous journey, as proof that even from the greatest brokenness and loss, beautiful and lasting things can still be born.

The ceremony was held right in the yard of the memorial park, under the canopy of an ancient banyan tree, a choice that the whole family unanimously supported as soon as Van Khue and Duy Khanh proposed it. Rows of white chairs are neatly arranged on the green lawn, small strings of lights are strung on the surrounding tree branches, and when dusk falls, those lights blend with the late afternoon sunlight to create a heart-warmingly romantic scene. Old Van Dang relatives, who have become an indispensable part of Van Khue's story, were also invited to join in the fun, many bringing simple but meaningful gifts - a hand-woven basket, an embroidered painting of an old alley, a jar of black sticky rice wine brewed according to the old neighborhood's family recipe.

Mr. Diep Khac Bon, although much weaker over time, also sent a flower basket with handwritten congratulations, a small gesture that made Mr. Tuyen feel emotional when he received it. "Perhaps, this is also a way for him to continue his journey of atonement," Mr. Tuyen said to Van Khue when reading the card, his voice no longer had any resentment, only the tolerance of a person who has learned to let go of the burden of the past.

Now, sitting alone in the quiet morning before work officially begins, Van Khue picks up a pen, not to edit digital maps on the computer as usual, but to sketch a small hand-drawn drawing, a habit she started recently, inspired by the way her grandfather worked in his youth. She drew, according to memory and according to what she had learned along the way, the shape of Van Dang Hamlet - not a dry technical map, but a memorial drawing, with small details that only made sense to those who had heard the story: the ancient banyan tree at the entrance, the small temple, the ferry, and scattered throughout the alleys, the names of each family that she had painstakingly verified from old registers, from her grandmother's words. Net, from the memories of Grandpa and Grandma Nhai.

This will be the drawing she intends to give to the Van Dang Memory Gallery, a "living" version of the original map, redrawn by the next generation, as an affirmation that the work of preserving this memory will not stop with one generation, but will be passed on, renewed, and supplemented with details that time gradually reveals.

The office door opened slightly, Duy Khanh walked in, holding two cups of hot coffee, a familiar smile appeared on his lips when he saw her working hard on the drawing. "You woke up so early," he said, placing a cup of coffee on the table next to her, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the forehead.

After the wedding, as planned, Duy Khanh spent many evenings with Van Khue learning more about archival techniques and document digitization, while she also began participating in a few field surveys with him for other conservation projects that the heritage center is implementing. Their jobs, although each still holds their own professional role, are now naturally intertwined, complementing each other in a way that they both appreciate every day.

"This morning Mr. Khai texted me asking if I would stop by the office early. He wanted to discuss more about the plan to digitize the entire west riverbank area, where it seems to have some unusual points similar to Van Dang," Duy Khanh said, sitting down next to her, taking a sip of coffee.

Van Khue looked up, her eyes shining with familiar professional curiosity. "Is that so? Maybe this afternoon I'll stop by the archives in that area to take a look. Who knows, there might be another story waiting to be told."

"I have no doubt that you will find out," Duy Khanh smiled, his eyes filled with confidence. "You have a special talent for seeing things others miss."

"I want to complete this drawing before going to the Gallery progress report meeting this morning," Van Khue replied, looking up at him, her eyes shining with the simple joy of the job she loved. "Look, I just remembered another detail that Mrs. Net told me the other day - it seems there is a small monkey bridge across the creek behind the temple, used to bypass the whole neighborhood's vegetable garden."

Duy Khanh bent down and looked at the drawing that was gradually being completed under her hands, his eyes filled with sincere admiration. "You know, every time I see you working like this, I remember what my grandfather said in the past - my job is to keep memories for an entire city. I think, you are doing exactly that, in your own way, not only correcting the mistakes of the past, but also building for the future."

Van Khue smiled, put down her pen, looked out the office window, where Kim Xuyen city was waking up in the early morning sunlight, the familiar streets were gradually crowded with passersby, in the distance was the sparkling river winding through the city, carrying many stories of the past and present. She thought of the ancient banyan tree still standing firmly in the memorial park, of her grandfather's original map that was now solemnly displayed, of her family that was now complete and warmer than ever with the presence of Mrs. Nhai, of the love she had found amid that arduous journey.

She thought of all the streets that had been forgotten, erased from the official map of this city - not only Van Dang, but maybe there were many other areas, many other stories, still waiting to be discovered by someone by chance, to be heard, to be remembered. She understands that the job of a draftsman, after all, is not only to draw technically accurate lines, but also to preserve traces of people, of communities that once existed, loved, and suffered, so that no one, no place, has to suffer complete disappearance from collective memory simply because of the silence or indifference of those who hold the power to record history.

She picked up the pen and added the final stroke to the drawing - the image of the small monkey bridge that Duy Khanh had just mentioned, completing another small piece of the picture of memories that were gradually being fully restored. Outside the window, the spring sunshine spread across the close-knit rooftops of Kim Xuyen city, and Van Khue, in the middle of that peaceful morning, smiled at the thought that, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many roads have been forgotten, there will always be people, like her grandfather, like her, like Duy Khanh, and like so many others, ready to pick up a pen, to redraw, to remember, so that no story will forever sink into darkness. of oblivion.