Chapter 6 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

On Sunday, Vĩnh An had no urgent cases to handle, and Mr. Nghi, as was his custom once a month, closed the preparation room at noon so that all three of them — he, An Nhiên, and Nguyên Khang — could have a full day without being on call, unless there was a real emergency. An Nhiên spent the morning doing laundry and cleaning the room, and at nearly eleven o'clock, she received a text message from her father: "Dad is going to the city for something, can you come visit me?"

This was the first time in the five years An Nhiên worked in Vĩnh An that Trần Hữu Lam proactively offered to stop by where his daughter worked. Before that, every time he went to the city for something - buying wood, delivering goods to regular customers - he would just stop by the motel room, have a meal with his children and then leave the same day, never once asking to see where his daughter worked, even though An Nhiên never actively invited.

She texted back: "Okay dad, I'm at work, you can stop by."

Nearly one o'clock in the afternoon, Trần Hữu Lam appeared in front of Vĩnh An gate on an old motorbike, wearing the outfit he usually reserved for going out, not his usual clothes stained with wood dust. He stood in front of the gate for a while, looking at the signboard of Vĩnh An painted in gold letters on a dark blue background, then walked in, walking a bit hesitantly like a stranger, even though this was the place where his daughter had been for five years.

An Nhiên came out to welcome him, leading his father through the small garden in front of the hall, where a few white plumeria bushes were blooming, then into the living room to wait, where Mr. Nghi was sitting reading the newspaper. Mr. Nghi stood up and shook hands with Trần Hữu Lam, his voice was warm but not too ostentatious.

"Are you An Nhiên's father? I've heard you talk about you all the time, but I just met you today."

"Yes, I'm Lam, Nhien's father," Trần Hữu Lam replied, a bit awkward for the first few seconds, then gradually became more comfortable when he saw the sincere attitude of the older man in front of him. "Does it bother you much if my nephew works here?"

"On the contrary, he is one of the most dedicated professionals I have met in my thirty years here," Mr. Nghi replied in a serious tone, not a social sentence. "You can be proud of your daughter."

An Nhiên, standing next to her, felt something warm spread in her chest when she heard that sentence, not because she was complimented, but because she clearly saw, in her father's eyes at that moment, a small but real change - as if the affirmation from an outsider, a trustworthy older man, helped him accept what he had been struggling with for many years.

She took her father on a tour of the funeral rooms, the waiting room, and the small memorial garden behind, but when she reached the door of the preparation room, she stopped, her hand on the doorknob without opening it immediately.

"This is my main working room. Dad, do you want to come in and see?"

Trần Hữu Lam looked at the door for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, let me see where you work."

Inside, the preparation room today is empty, the work table has been wiped clean, and the tool trays are arranged neatly in order. The soft light from the specialized lighting system cast a gentle warm yellow color on the room, nothing as scary as he had probably imagined for many years in his head. An Nhiên showed her father the color palette, the brush boxes arranged by size, and the internal notebook where she wrote down every detail of each shift.

"This is the place you always told me about, right?" Trần Hữu Lam asked, his voice low, his eyes looking around the room with unusual attentiveness.

"Yes. This is where I work so that those who have passed away can see themselves one last time, the way their families want to remember." An Nhiên replied, her hand gently caressing the edge of the work table, which had been wiped clean. "I know you were worried that I would be miserable doing this job. But look, this place is not scary at all. It's just quiet, and careful."

Her father didn't answer right away, just stood there, looking around the room for a long time, then walked to the tool table, picked up a small makeup brush, turned it gently in his hand, his eyes as if remembering something far away.

"This brush is the same as the brush your mother often uses," he spoke, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "She often sits meticulously, brushing little by little on the bride's cheeks, always muttering to see if the color is even."

"I remember." An Nhiên replied, her voice also soft. "When I was little, I used to sit next to my mother and watch. She often asked me to give her this brush and that brush."

Trần Hữu Lam put the brush down in its original position, carefully as if afraid of disturbing something important. "It took me only three hours to understand that perhaps I don't do this job just because of my mother's problems. I do it because I have it in my blood, passed down from my mother, but my father only sees the painful part, not that part." An Nhiên said nothing, just stood silently looking at her father, feeling something in her chest soften, like a small knot had been loosened after many years.

Before leaving, Trần Hữu Lam stayed in the living room and waited a while longer, sitting with Mr. Nghi over a cup of tea. An Nhiên stood near the door, pretending to rearrange the flyer rack, but was actually listening to the conversation between the two men, something she never thought she would have the chance to witness.

"Have you been doing this job long?" Trần Hữu Lam asked, gently turning the tea cup.

"Thirty years, uncle," Mr. Nghi replied, his voice calm. "When I was young, I also thought this was a sad profession, few people wanted their children and grandchildren to follow. But after working for a long time, I realized that this is the only profession in which people trust me with the most private and vulnerable moments of a family. Not everyone is patient enough and calm enough to do it."

"Is my niece Nhien enough?" Trần Hữu Lam asked, half joking and half serious, but his eyes looked straight at Mr. Nghi, waiting for a sincere answer.

"That's enough, uncle. I even think he has something that many people who work in this profession find it hard to have all their lives - he sees colors and light like someone who is already familiar with them, not just learned. I once asked him where he learned that, and he said he learned it from his mother. I believe him." Mr. Nghi took a sip of tea and looked at Trần Hữu Lam with sincere eyes. "I have a daughter who is good at her job and has a passion for her profession. That's something not all parents have." Trần Hữu Lam was silent for a moment, his eyes were slightly red, then nodded slightly, did not say anything more, just raised the cup of tea and took a long sip as if to hide the emotions rising in his heart. An Nhiên stood in the corner of the room, pretending to be still busy with the price of leaflets, but the corners of her eyes were also slightly stinging.

*

In the afternoon, after his father left to catch the bus to Gò Sao, Nguyên Khang found An Nhiên sitting alone in the memorial garden behind, where there was a stone bench under the canopy of a magnolia tree. This garden was Mr. Nghi's idea many years ago, a small yard planted with a few jade orchids, white porcelain, and a row of neatly trimmed short laurel trees, where the families of the deceased sometimes return on the anniversary of their deaths, to sit for a while, without having to go into the old funeral room, just a quiet corner to remember their loved ones.

"Is your dad home yet?" He asked, sitting down next to her, just the right distance as always.

"Yes, Dad just left." An Nhiên replied, looking towards the white jade orchids that were giving off a light scent in the afternoon breeze. "This is the first time Dad has come into my room to do something like that. It's been five years since this time."

"So it's a good day." Nguyên Khang smiled, his eyes gently looking at her. "I'm happy for you."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the chirping of sparrows in the trees and the sound of vehicles in the distance on the main road. An Nhiên glanced at Nguyên Khang and realized that he was attentively observing a small ant crawling on the edge of a stone chair. His relaxed appearance was rarely seen during working hours.

"Dude," she spoke up, "why did you choose this profession back then? You haven't told me in detail."

Nguyên Khang was silent for a moment, as if considering whether to tell or not, then slowly opened his mouth. "When I was young, my grandfather passed away, my family was poor, I didn't have money to rent a proper hearse, I had to borrow a tricycle to carry the coffin to the cemetery, the road was bumpy, everyone was miserable but couldn't do anything. I always remember that image, I kept thinking, if only someone had taken care of this matter more thoughtfully for my family at that time, it would have been better. Growing up, I learned to drive, then by chance I learned that Vĩnh An was in need of someone, so I applied for a job, but I didn't expect to be able to do it until now."

"So you also bring your own story to the profession, like me." An Nhiên said softly.

"Yes. I think everyone who does this job for a long time has their own reason for sticking with it, it's not by chance." Nguyên Khang turned to look at her, his eyes were more sincere than usual. "I think that's also the reason why I feel compatible with you, even though we haven't said much."

An Nhiên felt her cheeks heat up slightly. She didn't respond right away. She just smiled and looked down at her hand on her thigh. The afternoon wind blew past, carrying the faint scent of orchid, and in that moment, neither of them was in a hurry to say anything more, just letting that silence have a full meaning on its own.