Chapter 20 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

That evening, after the funeral procession of Ms. Đoàn Diệu Hiền had returned from the cemetery and all work in Vĩnh An had been tidied up, An Nhiên cycled back to her room in the orange sunset on the familiar rooftops along the road she had passed every day for the past five years. Her body was exhausted after two days of almost non-stop work, but in her heart, a strange feeling of relief was spreading, different from the usual fatigue after each difficult shift.

Returning to her room, she put down her bag, took the paper Gia Hân gave her out of her pocket, and read Đoàn Diệu Hiền's words again: "Each stroke carries a part of the artist's soul. No matter how clumsy the drawing is, cherish it, because it is a part of you." She placed the paper on the desk, next to the wooden shelf her father built, then looked down at the bottom drawer, where her mother's old tin box had remained for many years, never having been opened.

This time, there was no more hesitation. An Nhiên pulled the drawer, took out the tin box, and placed it on the table under the warm yellow light of the study lamp. She sat down, placed her hands on the lid of the box for a long time, felt the cold tin under her fingertips, then slowly opened the lid.

Inside are my mother's old makeup brushes. The wooden handles are glossy because they have been used for many years, and the bristles are still soft even after many years of not being used. Interspersed among the brushes is an almost empty red lipstick, a small box of foundation with the remaining powder caked in a thin layer, and a small photo, yellowed over time - the image of Lê Bạch Yến applying makeup to a young bride, smiling brightly, eyes shining with passion for her work.

An Nhiên picked up each item and looked at it for a long time, letting her childhood memories come back naturally, no longer avoiding them like before. She remembers the afternoons sitting next to her mother in the salon, watching her meticulously choose colors, comb hair, and decorate each bride preparing for the big day of her life. She remembered her mother's crisp laughter every time she completed a satisfactory piece of work, and the familiar scent of makeup that always lingered in that small space.

She picked up the smallest brush and rotated it gently in her hand - the same brush she used every day in her work, except that this one was older, with more obvious time marks. She smiled, a gentle smile, no longer heavy with pain like before, but carrying the warmth of being connected to a part of the legacy her mother left behind, even though she never had the opportunity to see her daughter continue that path in her own way.

She sat for a while longer, flipping through the internal notebook where she still wrote down the name and a few details of each past case — Mr. Đặng Văn Cẩn with his mustache that had remained the same for forty years, Mr. Kiều Thị Nhẫn with a photo album of orphans, little Đỗ Khánh Băng with an old teddy bear, Cao Đắc Huy with a silence that needed to be respected, Mr. and Mrs. Tựu — Xoan with a love that had not left him for sixty years, Lương Việt Dũng with his teddy bear. The lighter was returned, and now, Ms. Đoàn Diệu Hiền with the handwritten note was passed on. Each name, each story, has left a unique mark on her professional journey, and she understands that journey will continue, with many new names, many new stories to come in the years ahead.

Diệu Thanh, who was also on duty that evening, walked into the preparation room, saw An Nhiên sitting quietly next to a notebook, and gently came to sit next to her, not asking anything, just silently accompanying her. After a moment, she spoke, her voice soft. "Miss Nhien, I think in the future, when I'm strong enough, I will also keep a notebook like that."

"That's a good idea." An Nhiên replied, smiled, closed the notebook. "Each person working in this profession, over time, will find their own way to carry the stories they have touched. For me, it is this notebook. For Khang, it is the leather-bound notebook he still writes in. As for me, maybe I will find my own way, when the time comes." Diệu Thanh nodded, her eyes shining with a deep appreciation for the job she had chosen, an appreciation that had grown a lot since the first day of confusion when entering Vĩnh An.

*

A few days later, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, Trần Hữu Lam suddenly went to the city to visit his daughter, bringing with him a bag of country fruits and, more specifically, a small photo frame that he himself made of wood, inside placed an old family photo - a photo of all three of them, Trần Hữu Lam, Lê Bạch Yến, and An Nhiên as children, standing in front of the makeup shop in Gò Sao, all smiling brightly on a beautiful sunny day.

"Dad found this photo in a pile of old things, thought you should have one in your room," he said, handing the photo frame to his daughter, his voice a bit shy as if afraid this gift would bring back pain instead of bringing joy.

An Nhiên received the photo frame, looked at it for a long time, feeling a warmth filling her chest. "I like it very much, dad. Thank you."

She placed the photo frame on the desk, right next to her mother's opened tin box, creating a meaningful little corner in her simple rented room. The warm yellow light from the table lamp shines down, highlighting family photo frames and old makeup items, like a small unofficial altar where she can always feel her mother's presence when she returns after a day of work.

Trần Hữu Lam stood looking at that corner of the table for a moment, then nodded slightly, as if he also felt the peace gradually spreading in this space. "Your mother would be very happy if she could see you now."

"I think you've always seen it, Dad, somehow." An Nhiên replied, smiling at her father.

Trần Hữu Lam stayed to have dinner with his daughter, a simple meal that An Nhiên cooked herself, not fancy but cozy. While eating, he told her about his recent carpentry workshop work, about the new altar cabinet order he had just received, and about some old neighbors in Gò Sao who often asked about her. An Nhiên listened, occasionally contributed to the conversation, feeling a new rhythm in the relationship between father and son - no longer awkward silences like before, but a natural, comfortable closeness, gradually built through each call and each meeting over the past several months.

Before leaving, he stopped for a moment in front of the corner of the desk where An Nhiên placed a family photo frame next to her mother's tin box, looked at it again, then nodded slightly, as a farewell to his deceased wife, before turning to hug his daughter, telling her to take care of her health.

*

That evening, after seeing her father off to the bus station to return to Gò Sao, An Nhiên cycled through Vĩnh An, even though it was not her shift. She just wanted to stop by and stand for a moment in the quiet preparation room, where she had witnessed so many life stories over the past five years.

Nguyên Khang, who was on night shift, saw her coming, smiled and greeted her, looking a bit surprised and happy. "Aren't you going to stay at home? Why are you still here?"

"I just wanted to stop by for a moment." An Nhiên replied, entering the preparation room and turning off the main light, leaving only the soft light from the small lamp in the corner of the room.

She stood there, looking around the familiar room — the work table had been wiped clean, the trays of tools were neatly arranged, the color palette hung neatly on the wall. Nguyên Khang stood next to her, saying nothing, just quietly accompanying her in that quiet moment.

An Nhiên walked to the tool table and picked up a small mirror that she used to check the light reflected on her face every shift. The mirror surface is a bit foggy from chalk dust accumulated over many months of use. She took a soft cloth and gently wiped every corner, until the mirror surface was transparent again, clearly reflecting the warm yellow light of the room and her face was smiling, a peaceful smile, no longer entangled with old hidden corners.

She placed the mirror back in its correct position on the tool table, neatly aligned with the other tools, ready for the next shift, for the next story that will walk through this door. The small light in the room still radiates a gentle, warm halo, shining on the clean mirror, on the neatly arranged tools, on a future that still has many stories waiting ahead - not stories of simple loss, but stories of care, of dignity, of love preserved until the last moment, and sometimes, even beyond.