Chapter 17 — Language is Wings

"Correct." She smiled faintly, "Then I paid the price myself. After leaving Trung Hoa, the German contract... you heard it too, right?"

"In the past, you always corrected my translations. I never knew my true level. It wasn't until you were gone... that I realized..."

She didn't continue. I looked at her, my voice slowing down.

"To Uyen Tinh, your efforts are real. Seven years of studying German was not in vain. It's just that there are times... you choose the wrong direction."

She looked at me.

“You don't hate me?”

“As for me tampering with the evidence—”

She stood there for a long time. The eyes for the first time... were no longer sharp.

“Another Lam Dao.”

“The me before… didn't even dare to face myself.”

She nodded. At the door, she stopped and said one sentence:

"The exhibition is very beautiful. Your father... will be very happy."

Then disappeared in the crowd. I looked up and let out a long breath. There are endings… without any fuss. Just close. The exhibition lasted two months. Five cities. More than twelve thousand visitors. Berlin opened, Professor Schmidt came to shake my hand:

“The seed your father planted… finally bloomed.”

Dubai is crowded with Middle Eastern traders. The owner of a Persian carpet shop gave me a small carpet every year.

“For the Chinese girl with a Cairo accent.”

Paris, Mr. Trieu wore a new suit and stood for a long time in front of the glass cabinet.

“The path your parents took… you are continuing.”

I nodded. Istanbul, the closing ceremony ended in the night breeze on the hotel terrace. Co Than Chau found me.

“Are you tired?”

"A little bit."

“Five cities, two months, she alone shouldered all the narration and interpretation.”

“I'm used to it.”

“Don't get used to being alone.”

He took out a small box from his pocket.

"It's not a proposal. Don't be nervous."

I stared. A yellow brooch— Picture of a bridge.

"Custom-made. Because you once said... your father said you were a bridge."

I picked it up. Cold metal touches the hand. On the surface of the bridge, a line of extremely small words was engraved. I leaned closer to look—

“Bridge” is written in many languages.

Chinese, English, German, French, Japanese, Korean, Spanish, Arabic... and Russian.

“Wait—nine languages?”

"YES." He calmly said, "I studied Russian for three months. I only learned that one word."

I looked at him. The Istanbul night wind blew past, in the distance the Bosphorus Bridge was lit up. A bridge... connecting the two banks.

“Co Than Chau, you…”

“You know how to do it too well.”

“Only with you.”

I pinned the brooch on my shirt. That moment— It was like something inside… was put back in place. Five years later. Dong Thinh's International Cultural Exchange Department becomes the industry standard. Every year more than twenty cross-country projects. Revenue exceeded two hundred million. My name is no longer “girl of eight languages”. But an "international cultural connector". A title so long that I even find it funny. He sat across from me, holding the report.

“This year revenue increased by thirty percent again.”

“Your salary… has to increase.”

"How much?"

“One coin.”

He raised his eyebrows.

"Serious?"

"The rest is a scholarship. Funding young people to learn foreign languages. Named after my parents."

He looked at me for a few seconds.

"Okay. 'Lam Chan Quoc - Tran Anh Tuyet language scholarship'."

“How do you know my mother's name?”

“Because I am your husband.”

I laughed. Nien Cao—now a plump old cat—jumped down from the sofa and slowly walked closer to me. Outside the window is the city skyline. It's no longer the cold rented room that year. But sometimes I still remember— The night I sat eating a bowl of egg soup by the unheated window. When I knew eight languages. Receive eighty thousand a year. Raise a cat. Rejected a fortune. I used to think— Just keep quiet… it won't hurt anymore. My father wrote in the letter:

“Shine.”

It took me a long time... to learn how to glow. But luckily— I finally learned.