Chapter 19 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

The next morning, after completing the final details - a simple white shirt combined with a light beige cardigan, the outfit Ms. Đoàn Diệu Hiền usually wears to class, and a small leaf-shaped hair clip that Mr. Dương Bá Khiêm said his wife loved - An Nhiên stood back, taking a final look at the whole thing before inviting his family in.

She invited Mr. Nghi to come in and check with her, following the careful process she still applies to all cases, but was especially more thorough with this case. Mr. Nghi stood and looked for a long time, nodded, his eyes full of sincere recognition.

"You did an excellent job, An Nhiên. This was one of the most difficult cases I've ever seen, and you did the almost impossible," he said, his voice filled with pride. "I believe, your family will be extremely grateful to you." An Nhiên nodded, unable to say much because her throat was choked with a complex emotion that was difficult to name - both professional pride and something deeper, associated with her old wound that was gradually being soothed through each operation she had just completed.

*

The family was invited at nine o'clock in the morning. Dương Bá Khiêm walked in first, his gait trembling, mentally preparing for the worst that he had been fearing all night. But when he saw his wife's face through the glass of the coffin - calm, gentle, almost intact as when she was alive - he stood still, his hands covering his mouth, tears flowing uncontrollably.

"Diệu Hiền..." he whispered, his voice breaking completely, stepping closer, his hand pressed against the glass. "You're still as beautiful, my sister is still as beautiful..."

Standing behind him, Gia Hân walked in slowly, her eyes closed as if she was trying to mentally prepare for a shock that she had feared all night. An Nhiên stood in the corner of the room, her heart beating fast, watching her every step with as much suspense as the person involved.

Gia Hân opened her eyes when she stood right in front of the coffin. There was a long moment of silence, and then, the girl burst into tears — but it was not a cry of panic or pain at a horrifying image, but a cry of recognition, of nostalgia being released in front of a familiar, beloved face.

"Mom, you're still as beautiful as ever," Gia Hân said, her voice trembling but filled with a deep relief. "I'm still afraid, I'm afraid that you won't be like me anymore. But you're still mom, you're still as beautiful as when you took me to school every morning."

She raised her trembling hand to touch the glass surface, right above her mother's face, and stood there for a long time, not saying anything, just letting the tears roll down, carrying both the pain of loss and gratitude that words could not describe.

*

After the family had enough time alone with the coffin, Gia Hân turned back to find An Nhiên, standing quietly in the corner of the room. The girl walked over, didn't say anything, just hugged An Nhiên, her arms tightened as if she was clinging to something solid in the middle of a storm of emotions.

"Thank you," Gia Hân whispered in her ear, his voice choked. "You kept your promise. I got to see you, really see you, not behind a closed door."

An Nhiên hugged the girl, feeling Gia Hân's tears wet the shoulder of her shirt, and in that moment, something in her heart, a knot that had existed for thirteen years, seemed to be slowly being untied. She didn't cry—she had learned to stay professional in moments like these—but her eyes stung, and she let the emotion flow naturally, not trying to suppress it.

"I'm glad I could do that for you." An Nhiên replied in a low voice. "I'm glad you'll carry this image with you, the image of your mother at peace, instead of an unanswered obsession." Gia Hân stepped back, looked at An Nhiên with grateful eyes, then asked, her voice mixed with curiosity mixed with the deep sympathy of someone who had just experienced similar pain. "You said you also didn't get to see your mother's face one last time. So is your pain... less painful now?"

That question made An Nhiên pause for a second and think honestly before answering. "I think, that pain will probably never completely go away, honey. But every time I help another family like yours today, I feel that pain is a little less heavy, because I know, it has been transformed into something meaningful." Gia Hân nodded, seeming to understand some of the deeper meaning of An Nhiên's answer, even though at the age of sixteen, she probably couldn't fully understand. But the look in her eyes, when looking at An Nhiên at that time, carried a special connection, as if two people, despite being separated by a long time, shared a very private and profound part of their lives.

*

In the afternoon, the official visitation ceremony of Ms. Đoàn Diệu Hiền took place in the large room of Vĩnh An, where many former students and colleagues from the elementary school came to pay their respects. Many students, now young men and young women, stood and sobbed in front of their former teacher's coffin, recounting memories of her dedication and kindness during eighteen years of teaching.

Diệu Thanh, present to help with the logistics of the ceremony, stood next to An Nhiên for a moment, his voice whispering with admiration. "You did this shift so beautifully, Ms. Nhien. I heard everyone whispering, no one could believe that the teacher had such a serious accident."

"This is the case you've put the most effort into so far, Thanh." An Nhiên replied, her voice quiet, her eyes still following the line of people lining up to pay their respects. "I'll tell you why, when we have a chance to sit down and talk longer," Diệu Thanh nodded, did not ask further, just quietly observed and learned how An Nhiên handled all situations that arose during the ceremony with characteristic calmness and thoughtfulness.

Nguyên Khang, in charge of the ceremony and coordinating vehicles for the ceremony, took advantage of the absence of people to stop by An Nhiên's side, his voice full of concern. "You haven't been able to sleep for a few nights, you must be so tired. You look better, since this morning."

"Little Gia Hân hugged me this morning and said thank you." An Nhiên replied, her voice much more relieved than the tension of the previous days. "I think it was one of the most meaningful moments in my entire career, brother."

Nguyên Khang smiled, his eyes filled with pride for her. "I know you can do it. You always put your heart and soul into every case, but in this case, I clearly see you giving more than you usually do." An Nhiên nodded, did not deny, just smiled, feeling a rare peace spreading in her heart amid the solemn but warm atmosphere of the ceremony.

*

At funeral time, when the convoy was preparing to take Ms. Đoàn Diệu Hiền to her final resting place, Gia Hân came to An Nhiên again, holding a small brown leather-covered notebook.

"This is the notebook my mother still uses to take notes on lectures, sister." The girl said, showing the notebook to An Nhiên. The pages were covered with neat handwriting, interspersed with a few simple illustrations that her mother used to teach her students. "I want to give you a page, the page my mother wrote about teaching students how to draw, my mother wrote like this." She turned to a page and pointed to the carefully written words: "Each stroke carries a part of the artist's soul. No matter how clumsy the stroke is, cherish it, because it is a part of you."

"Your mother writes so well." An Nhiên said, her voice emotional, rereading the words again.

"I think, this statement is also true for your work," Gia Hân said, her voice sincere. "Every shift you do, no matter how difficult, carries a part of your soul in it. I want to thank you, by sharing this with you."

An Nhiên received the piece of paper Gia Hân tore from the notebook, carefully folded it, and put it in her pocket. "I'll keep it carefully, honey. Thank you for sharing a precious part of your mother's memories with me."

Gia Hân smiled, for the first time in the past two days, a smile of relief crept through the cloud of sadness still covering her young face. The little girl turned around and ran towards her father, who was waiting, to catch up with her mother's funeral procession to her final resting place.

An Nhiên stood watching, lightly touching the pocket where the small piece of paper was kept, feeling a warmth spreading throughout her chest, as if a certain part of her soul, after thirteen years of carrying an old wound, had finally found a piece of the puzzle to begin the process of complete healing.