Chapter 16 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

The bus left the station at six o'clock in the morning, and An Nhiên sat next to the window, watching the scenery pass by - green rice fields, bamboo groves leaning in the wind, gradually giving way to the familiar road leading to Gò Sao. This was a trip back home on the occasion of her mother's death anniversary, thirteen years since Lê Bạch Yến left her family, and this year, for some reason, she felt that this trip had a different meaning than previous years.

Perhaps it's because of what she's been through in recent months - Mr. Nhan's brother with no relatives, little Mr. Bang's old teddy bear, Mr. Đắc Huy's heavy silence, Mr. and Mrs. Tựu's brother with a love that surpasses death, Mr. Việt Dũng's brother with a late apology from a father. Each story, in its own way, touched some part of her own old wound, making her realize that it was time for her to face it more fully, instead of just avoiding it by burying herself in work.

Trần Hữu Lam picked her up at the bus station, still looking familiarly skinny but somewhat healthier than the last time they met. He hugged his daughter, a rare gesture between father and daughter, who were not used to expressing their affection through actions, but were only used to asking brief questions over the phone.

"You're back, I'm so happy," he said, his voice a bit choked.

"I'm happy to be home too, dad." An Nhiên replied, squeezing her father's hand.

*

In the afternoon, after eating lunch together in the old house that still had many things intact from when her mother was alive - the wooden table where the family still sat to eat every night, the glass cabinet where her mother used to display a few small jewelry items - father and daughter together prepared a tray of rice to celebrate the death anniversary. An Nhiên helped her father prepare dishes, including sour snakehead fish soup, her mother's favorite dish of her life, a recipe Trần Hữu Lam still cooks every year on this day, even though his cooking skills are not really skillful.

"Dad, do you cook this every year?" An Nhiên asked, looking at her father carefully seasoning.

"Yes, my mother likes this dish very much. Every time my father comes home tired from work, she often cooks it for him, telling him to eat it sour to stay awake," Trần Hữu Lam replied, his voice nervous. "Dad doesn't cook as well as your mom, but he tries every year as a way to remember her."

After the tray of rice was placed on the altar, father and son stood together, lit incense, and remained silent for a moment in front of Lê Bạch Yến's portrait - a photo taken when she was young, with a bright smile, bright eyes, holding a small makeup brush, probably taken right in her work shop.

"Mom, I'm coming to visit you." An Nhiên whispered, looking straight at the photo. "It's been thirteen years, Mom. I've now done work that I believe you would be proud of, if you only knew," Late in the afternoon, before the sun went out, An Nhiên asked her father for permission to visit her mother's grave alone. The town's small cemetery is located on a low hillside, about two kilometers from the house. The dirt road leading up the hill is full of weeds and a few purple flower bushes on both sides. She pedaled her father's old bicycle. The afternoon breeze blew coolly, carrying the smell of damp soil after a small afternoon rain.

Mother's grave was located in a quiet corner, under the shade of an old almond tree that was planted since the day the tomb was first established, and was now tall and shady for the entire area. An Nhiên sat down next to her, wiped the dust off the stone stele, and carefully re-arranged the bouquet of white chrysanthemums she brought with her from the morning.

"Mom, I'm coming to visit you again," she spoke, her voice gentle as if she were talking to a close friend. "This year I have a lot of stories I want to tell mom. I met an old lady who had no relatives. I took good care of her. There was a young man she had raised who came back in time to see him off. I met an old couple who loved each other so much that even death couldn't bear to be apart. I met a father who hadn't spoken to his son in ten years, and didn't have time to say sorry until his son died."

She sat quietly for a moment, her fingers gently touching the cold surface of the stone stele, where her mother's name and birth and death dates were engraved. "In each of those stories, I think of my mother, of me. I think, maybe this is how my mother is still with me, through every person I meet, every face I care for."

The afternoon wind blew past, shaking the almond branches above my head, creating a gentle rustling sound as a silent response. An Nhiên sat there for a while longer, not in a hurry, letting this private moment last, until the afternoon sunlight began to turn dark orange, then she stood up, bowed to her mother again before cycling back.

On the way home, she stopped by the small street where her mother's bridal makeup shop used to be located. The house has now changed owners, becoming a small grocery store, but the old window frames and light blue painted wooden door are still intact as in her memory. She stood and looked for a moment, letting old images flood back - the sound of her mother laughing and talking to customers, the faint smell of makeup, the warm yellow light in the late afternoon as her mother meticulously smoothed each strand of hair for the bride about to walk down the aisle.

An elderly woman sweeping in front of the grocery store noticed her, stopped, and looked at her intently. "Are you Miss Yen's daughter who used to be a makeup artist? Oh my god, you're so big, I can't recognize you."

"Yes, I am An Nhiên, mother Yen's daughter," she replied, smiling.

"My mother was very talented back then. Everyone in this town asked her to do their makeup when they got married. I still remember, my mother was very gentle. Poor customers didn't have enough money, so my mother still did it for her, without calculating anything." The old woman said, her voice full of nostalgia. "It's a pity she left so early."

"Yes, thank you for still remembering my mother." An Nhiên said, her eyes were a little teary, but her heart felt strangely warm knowing her mother was still alive in the memories of those who knew her.

*

That evening, after turning gold and cleaning up the offering tray, father and son sat on the porch, watching the moonlight rise high in the quiet countryside sky. An Nhiên decided that this was the right time to say what she had been cherishing for a long time but never had the courage.

"Dad, I want to ask you something, about the day mom passed away," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Trần Hữu Lam turned to look at his daughter, his eyes were a bit surprised but he did not avoid it. "You ask."

"I remember, back then we closed the coffin, no one could see my mother's face one last time." An Nhiên said, trying to keep her voice calm even though complicated emotions were rising in her heart. "For so many years, I've always wondered what your mother's face really looked like at that time. I don't have a final image of my mother to keep, other than the image of my mother healthy before taking that bus trip. That has haunted me for many years, Dad, more than you think." Trần Hữu Lam was silent for a long time, his hands clasped tightly together, then replied, his voice sad. "I know, child. I've also had that obsession for thirteen years. There are nights when I dream of your mother, but in my dreams, I can never see her face clearly, it's always blurry, as if my mind itself can no longer hold any clear image of her face at the end."

"I think, that's also the reason I chose this profession, dad." An Nhiên said, her voice softened. "Not only because I want to help other families not have to go through what I went through, but also because, every time I complete a case well, I feel like I'm making up for something my mother didn't have."

Trần Hữu Lam turned to look at his daughter, his eyes shining with deep understanding. "I'm proud of you, An Nhiên. Not because you're good at your job, but because you turned your pain into something meaningful for others. Not everyone can do that."

Father and son sat silently together for a long time, without needing to say anything, just letting the moonlight and the chirping of insects in the countryside night fill the space between them, a silence that was no longer as heavy as in previous years, but a silence of understanding, of peace. Before going into the house to go to sleep, Trần Hữu Lam stood up, went inside, took out a small wooden box, closed it himself, and gave it to his daughter.

"I built this to hold some of your mother's things, things I've kept all these years. I think, now that you're older, it's better for me to keep them," he said, his voice was slightly hoarse.

An Nhiên received the wooden box, feeling the precision in each cut and each corner, a testament to the carpenter's silent love for his deceased wife, conveyed through each careful saw.