Chapter 8 — Four Hundred Kilometers to Home

Mother had resigned from her job. She announced that she wanted to stay home for a while, though the truth was that she could no longer sleep. Every single day, she would wake up at three or four in the morning, sitting in the living room in a daze. Once, waking up in the middle of the night to use the restroom, Nien Sinh saw Mother sitting alone on the sofa, clutching a small, palm-sized notebook.

"Mother."

"Go back to bed, dear."

"Are you still reading that?"

"I have finished it all. Now I am just reading it from the beginning again."

She turned a page, her fingertip resting gently on a line of text.

"The child wrote: 'Today, grandmother shared half a steamed bun with me.'"

"Half a steamed bun."

"Every single month, I transferred three thousand yuan to your grandmother."

"Three thousand yuan, and she could not even afford to let the child eat half a bun until she was full."

Mother closed the notebook and placed it heavily on her lap.

"All of that money, she kept every last coin."

"Hoarded away inside her old earthenware jar."

Three thousand yuan a month, for four long years. It added up to more than one hundred and forty thousand yuan, every bit of it resting quietly inside that savings jar—a jar the grandmother had personally salvaged from beneath the rubble of the collapsed kiln.

"I raised that child for ten years."

Mother's voice was as dry and rasping as sandpaper.

"And for the four years that followed, the only thing I raised was a digital bank transfer."

"I was foolish enough to believe that as long as the money arrived, everything would be fine."

"I foolishly thought she was living a good life there, foolishly believed that—"

She could not bring herself to finish. Believed what? Believed that I could simply grow up on my own without anyone's care? Believed that dumping me there meant no harm would ever touch me? Believed that abandoning a child and handing her over to strangers was the exact same thing as raising her? Believed that I was nothing more than a stray weed that could survive anywhere as long as there was dirt? Nien Sinh did not say a word. Nien Sinh walked over and sat down beside Mother, and the two of them remained silent for a very long time. Outside the window, the soft sound of flapping wings broke the quiet. A swallow alighted upon the windowsill. Its beak no longer held a fragment of broken brick; it had come empty-handed and settled there, like a faithful guest checking in each day.

"It's here again," Nien Sinh murmured.

"Yes."

"Do you think it is waiting for sister?"

Mother gave no answer. I stood quietly by the window, watching the creature. Its feathers were far cleaner than they had been a month ago, perhaps because it no longer needed to fly four hundred kilometers back and forth just to scavenge shards of brick. It tilted its head, peering through the glass into the room, gazing toward the little shrine, resting its eyes upon the lotus flower. I could not tell whether it truly understood anything, but it clearly remembered this exact spot. It was the place where I used to stand. The time has finally come for me to leave, I told myself. The letter has been delivered, everything that needed to be said has been spoken, and they know the whole truth now. Whether it changes anything or not, simply having them know is enough. When I was still alive, my deepest desires were so simple: to return home, to sit in my own chair, and to share a meal cooked by my father. Now, I have finally come back, albeit in an entirely different form. It is far from perfect, but I have returned nonetheless. The swallow suddenly beat its wings and took flight, circling the balcony once before darting directly toward the window. Slipping through the narrow gap of the half-open pane, it flew straight into the living room. Nien Sinh started in surprise. Yet the swallow collided with nothing; it flew unwaveringly toward the shrine, hovering mid-air before the photograph of the lotus for a single heartbeat, its wings fluttering ever so lightly. Then, it landed softly on the edge of the shrine and bowed its head to tap its beak against the lid of the ash urn—just the lightest touch, resembling a polite knock on a door. Neither Nien Sinh nor Mother dared to move. I watched it closely. The bird raised its head, its bead-like black eyes turning toward the window, looking directly at the spot where I stood. It could truly see me. Those dark eyes stared straight into mine, intense and unflinching, as if communicating a silent message:

"I have come to take you home."

A quiet smile touched my lips. Though no outward expression shifted, I knew deep down that I was smiling. And then, I let go. I released every remaining attachment to this living room, let go of the lingering obsession with that chair, and let go of the bittersweet illusion of "going home" that had never truly materialized throughout the four long years. Home was no longer found in this place. Home lived within the memory of a swallow that still remembered the warmth of my touch, rested beneath the eaves of a ruined brick kiln, and existed far away where I no longer had to spend forty agonizing minutes sterilizing my skin. The swallow soared away from the shrine, its wings cutting through the living room, flashing past the window, and plunging out into the open wind. I followed right behind it. Step by step, I walked upon the wind and through the brilliant light, crossing the four hundred kilometers back toward the rubble that could never weigh me down again. From far behind, Nien Sinh's voice drifted through the air, sounding already very distant.

"Mother, that bird has flown away."

"Yes."

"Will it ever come back?"

The rushing wind swept the words away, and I did not hear the reply. But I knew the answer. It would come back. Every year on this exact day, it would return to tap gently once against that windowpane, speaking softly on my behalf:

"I have finally arrived safely. Please do not worry."