Chapter 5 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

The visitation ceremony for baby Đỗ Khánh Băng took place in Vĩnh An's smallest room, which Mr. Nghi suggested using because the space is more cozy and less empty than the large rooms often used for cases of the elderly. He was also the one who proposed, instead of the traditional white chrysanthemums, to use a few small bouquets of daisies in between - the type of flower little Bang likes best, according to Ms. Trương Mỹ Hạnh during preparation, because "it's as small as you, the teacher often compliments you like a small flower."

That morning, when the door of the visiting room opened, Ms. Hanh walked in first, her trembling hands holding onto the edge of the glass coffin, looking at her daughter lying there in a yellow dress, a teddy bear in her arms, her thin hair neatly tied with a butterfly bow clip. Mr. Đỗ Anh Kiên stood behind his wife, one hand on her shoulder, the other hand gripping the chair next to him so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"You look like you're taking a nap," Ms. Hanh whispered, her voice trembling but no longer sobbing violently like the day she first brought her child home. "Like when I take a nap at home, I often hug my teddy bear and lie on its side." Mr. Kien couldn't say anything, just nodded, leaned down very close to the coffin glass, his lips moved something loud enough for only himself to hear. An Nhiên stood in the corner of the room, not coming closer, her eyes following every small expression on the couple's faces to quickly recognize if anything needed to be adjusted in the most sensitive first minutes. But this time, nothing needed adjusting. Ms. Hanh stood there, her hand pressed against the glass, and for the first time since her daughter's death, her face softened, not because the pain was gone, but because the pain, in this moment, found an image to anchor on — the image of a child sleeping peacefully, not a child who had endured two long years of pain.

Bang's old kindergarten teacher also came, carrying a small bouquet of flowers that she personally arranged. Along with a few children in the class brought by their parents, they stood bewilderedly looking at the coffin, not fully understanding what was going on but feeling the heaviness in the air. A little girl in the group, probably the same age as Bang, gingerly approached, placed a homemade paper flower on the coffin lid, then stepped back, holding her mother's hand tightly.

"That child and Bang have been in the same kindergarten class since they were three years old." The teacher whispered to An Nhiên and stood next to her for a while waiting for the official ceremony time. "The two of us are very close, we share everything. Since the day Bang left school for medical treatment, the other child kept asking when Bang would go back to school." An Nhiên didn't know how to answer, just nodded slightly, looking at the little girl standing next to her mother's feet, her round eyes looking at the coffin with the immature curiosity and fear of the age of seven - an age too young to fully understand the meaning of loss, but old enough to feel that something very sad was happening around her.

*

At noon, after most of the visitors had gone home, with only close family and a few close friends remaining, An Nhiên took the opportunity to go out into the hallway to get some air. She sat down on the back steps of Vĩnh An, where a row of old almond trees shaded her, and realized her hands were still shaking a little — not much, but enough for her to feel her body processing what she had just experienced, even though her mind had tried to stay calm and professional all morning.

Nguyên Khang found her there, brought two bottles of water, gave her one and sat down next to her, not too close, keeping a respectful enough distance.

"This morning's case is severe," he said, not a question.

"YES." An Nhiên replied, turning the water bottle in her hand, without opening the lid. "There are some cases where my hands shake after I finish doing them. When I'm working, I'm fine and I'm completely focused on my work. Only when I'm done do I see."

"I understand." Nguyên Khang looked out at the yard in front of him, where a few dry almond leaves scattered on the brick floor. "When I first started my career, I was once driving a high school student who got into a traffic accident. His classmates stood on both sides of the road to see him off, wearing school uniforms. I went home that night and couldn't sleep. I kept thinking what if it was my younger brother."

"Do you have a younger brother?" An Nhiên asked, a bit surprised because this was the first time she heard him mention this detail.

"No, I'm an only child." Nguyên Khang smiled slightly, a slightly sad smile. "But at that time I still thought that way, like imagining someone who wasn't real to better understand the pain of others. Maybe that was also a way to keep me from becoming numb, even though the work was repeated every day."

The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the sound of dry almond leaves rustling every time a light wind blew. An Nhiên opened the cap of the water bottle, took a sip, felt the coolness pass through her throat, and for the first time since morning, her body began to calm down.

"Thank you," she said, not specifically thanking her for the bottle of water or for sitting down here with her without needing her to explain further.

"Nothing," Nguyên Khang replied, stood up, and lightly brushed his pants. "Later, the family is preparing to leave the funeral. You go in first, I'll check the car and then go in later."

*

Before the funeral, there is a small ritual that Mr. Nghi still keeps reserved for children's cases, not recorded in any of Vĩnh An's official procedures: before closing the coffin lid, he will invite the parents to place their hands on the child's forehead one last time, and he, not another assistant, will be the one to close the lid, slowly, so that the family has enough time to look until the last second without being rushed by anyone.

Mr. Kien and Ms. Hanh walked forward together, each placing a hand on their daughter's forehead. Ms. Hanh bent down, leaned close to her child's ear, and said something very softly, just loud enough for the child to hear — or perhaps, just enough for herself to believe that the child could still hear. Mr. Kien stood straight, his jaw tense as he tried to hold back, but when Mr. Nghi's hand gently placed on the edge of the coffin lid, preparing to close it, he suddenly raised his hand to signal to stop for a moment.

"Let me... look a little more," he said, his voice cracking completely for the first time during the ceremony. "For the past two years, I've always told you to hold on, you're almost healed, hold on. Now I can't hold on anymore, I just want to see you a little more."

The whole room went silent. Mr. Nghi stood still, his hand still in the same position on the edge of the lid, not urging, not saying anything, just waiting. An Nhiên stood in the corner of the room, clearly feeling the weight of that moment on her chest, but she did not look away, because she understood, this was one of those moments where the quiet presence of the professional was also part of the care - not caring for the deceased, but caring for the pain of the living.

Nearly a minute later, Mr. Kien nodded slightly and took a half step back. Mr. Nghi slowly closed the coffin lid, his movements were slow and light, as if he were closing a precious book, not completing a procedure.

*

In the afternoon, when the funeral procession for baby Bang left Vĩnh An, An Nhiên stood at the gate and watched, not accompanying her as usual because Mr. Nghi took on that part, so that she could have time to rest after a serious case. She stood there until the convoy disappeared behind the corner, then went back inside and began cleaning the room in preparation.

That night, returning to the motel room, An Nhiên called her father, earlier than usual. Trần Hữu Lam answered the phone after two rings, sounding a bit surprised because girls rarely call at this time of the week.

"What's wrong? Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing dad, I just wanted to call and check on you." An Nhiên replied, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the dark window. "Today I'm working on a case... a seven year old girl. I just want to hear your voice for a bit."

The other end of the line was silent for a short while. "Are you done with that shift? Are you okay?"

"It's done, dad. I'm fine." She took a breath, her voice slowed. "Dad, when mom passed away, did someone do for mom like I just did for that baby? I'm asking honestly, I don't blame you, I just want to know," There was a longer silence than last time. Then her father replied, his voice lowered, each word slowly. "No, son. Back then, the funeral home was small. The funeral home owner told me frankly that it couldn't be done, and advised me to close the coffin early. Dad was so confused at that time that I just listened and couldn't ask anything more. Thinking back later, I also felt a lot of pain."

"I don't blame you, dad." An Nhiên said, her eyes stinging. "I only now understand better why it haunted me for so long."

"I know," Trần Hữu Lam replied, his voice choking slightly. "You take care of your health. Dad now understands the work you do, it's very meaningful, even though I still love you, you have to endure many heavy things."

After hanging up the phone, An Nhiên sat silently for a long time in the dark, then stood up and turned on the light, returning to her unfinished cleaning work.

While rearranging the color boxes, her hand touched a small butterfly-shaped bow clip - a copy that Ms. Hanh brought as a backup, didn't use it, and forgot to bring it home. An Nhiên picked it up, looked at it for a while, then put it in a separate compartment in her tool cabinet, where she kept a few small items from past special cases - not to remember death, but to remember the moments when people still try, in the smallest ways, to retain a part of love for the person who has left.

She closed the drawer, turned off the lights in the preparation room, and walked out as it was already dark, leaving behind a long day of work, and carrying with her, as always, a small part of the story that had just passed.