Chapter 7 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

The new case record only records a few lines: Cao Đắc Huy, twenty-six years old, died in an accident at his home. There were no other details, and An Nhiên, when reading through the paper on her desk Tuesday morning, immediately recognized its unusual brevity — in common accidents, whether at home or on the road, the documents handed over from the hospital or authorities often have a much more specific description, enough for the makeup artist to know what he needs to prepare for recovery.

She brought that question to Mr. Nghi, who was sitting in the small office next to the preparation room, reviewing some papers.

"Teacher, the records for this case are too few. I don't know how to prepare the tools." An Nhiên put the paper on the table.

Mr. Nghi looked at the file, was silent for a moment, then looked up at her, his eyes somewhat more reserved than usual. "The family asked to keep the details private, my child. I spoke to the mother on the phone this morning. She just said that she hopes the funeral home will help keep the image as dignified as possible, and hopes people won't ask more about the reason."

An Nhiên immediately understood what that meant, even though Mr. Nghi did not say it directly. In her five years of working, this is not the first time she has encountered such a case — deaths where the family, for various reasons, chooses not to tell the truth to outsiders, sometimes even to close relatives. She once heard Mr. Nghi say once, very briefly, about the principle of a professional in such cases: your job is not to judge or investigate, but to do the best job assigned, with absolute respect for the family's wishes, as long as it does not violate any legal regulations.

"I understand, teacher." An Nhiên nodded. "I will prepare all kinds of tools to handle the actual situation."

At noon, when Mr. Cao Đắc Huy's body was brought to Vĩnh An, An Nhiên immediately realized why the family asked to keep it secret - there were marks on the body that anyone with a little medical knowledge could recognize as not the traces of a normal accident. But she didn't show any unusual reactions on her face, just quietly started work following the same procedure she did with every other case - carefully observe first, then plan for recovery.

Đắc Huy's face, luckily, was not much damaged, only a few small bruises in the neck area that the family's high-collar shirt brought, along with a little professional covering technique, could be neatly handled. He had a young, delicate face, bushy eyebrows, and a small scar at the corner of his left eye - perhaps from some childhood accident, which had faded over the years. An Nhiên worked more slowly and carefully than usual, not because the technique was difficult, but because she felt, even though no one said it, the weight of silence surrounding this case.

His mother, Vũ Diệu Thắm, arrived at Vĩnh An alone in the afternoon, without her husband - who An Nhiên later learned was Cao Bá Nghiêm, Đắc Huy's father, who was at home taking care of the guests and keeping order in the family, because he did not have the courage to enter the room where his son was being prepared. Ms. Tham stood at the door of the preparation room for a long time before entering, her face swollen from crying so much but her appearance trying to stay calm, like a mother who was used to having to be tough in front of others.

"Are you the one who will take care of my child?" She asked, her voice hoarse.

"Yes, my name is An Nhiên. I will try my best to make him as dignified as possible, ma'am." An Nhiên replied, her voice gentle but firm.

Ms. Tham nodded, looked around the room for a moment, then stopped at her son's face, which was covered with a thin towel covering the body below the neck. She walked closer, her hand tremblingly raised but did not dare to touch, only keeping a few inches in the air.

"My child is very gentle, miss," she said, her voice gradually breaking. "From childhood to adulthood, he has never done anything wrong. He studies well and works hard. Everyone praises him for being good. I don't understand... I don't understand how this happened."

An Nhiên didn't answer, just stood still, giving Ms. Tham space to say what she needed to say, even though she didn't seem sure who she was talking to - to An Nhiên, or to herself, or to her son lying in front of her.

"Please... don't let anyone see those places." She pointed a trembling hand toward her covered neck. "His relatives and friends, I don't want anyone to know. I just want everyone to remember that my child is a gentle child, a good student, not... not the way he died."

"Don't worry." An Nhiên replied, her voice steady, looking straight into Ms. Tham's eyes. "I will do my best to make sure no one notices anything you don't want them to see. This is my job, and I understand, the most important thing right now is to keep the family the peace it needs."

Ms. Tham looked at her for a long time, as if trying to find a real assurance in An Nhiên's eyes, not just a polite word of comfort. Then she nodded, her shoulders sagged as if a part of the burden had been lifted, although most of that burden, An Nhiên knew, would still weigh on her long after today.

"My child likes blue," she added, her voice a little calmer, as if moving on to talk about specific things helped her stand firmer. "The shirt I brought is his favorite shirt, bought for his birthday last year. Can you wear that shirt for him?"

"Yes, sister. I will wear that shirt, and adjust the collar so that it fits most comfortably and formally." An Nhiên replied, her hand starting to reach for the bag containing the clothes Ms. Tham brought.

After Ms. Tham left the room, An Nhiên stood still for a moment before continuing her work, looking at Đắc Huy's youthful face, trying to imagine the life behind what that short profile did not mention. She didn't need to know the specific details of the story - she never needed to know, it wasn't her job - but she felt, through every word Ms. Tham said, some invisible pressure had been weighing on this boy for a long time, heavy enough to bring him to that final decision, while on the outside, everyone still only saw a good, well-educated, hard-working child.

She began her work with special care, not only in the covering technique, but in the way she chose the background color to soften the paleness on her face, and the way she combed her hair in the same style as Đắc Huy used in the photos Ms. Tham brought with her for reference - hair gently swept to one side, neat, the hairstyle of a young person who is neat and serious at work.

The technique of covering the neck area requires more layers than usual: first a layer of specialized cream to smooth the skin's surface, then a layer of neutral color to eliminate irregular pigmentation, then a final layer of foundation that matches the overall skin tone. An Nhiên worked layer by layer, letting each layer dry sufficiently before applying the next layer, patiently as if she were restoring an old painting rather than applying makeup to a face. She chose a shirt collar high enough to cover up without looking awkward, added a thin dark blue tie - Đắc Huy's favorite color, according to his mother - and tied it neatly, making the whole look like a guy getting ready to go to work in the morning rather than someone in a tragic situation.

Nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when most of the work was completed, Mr. Nghi stopped by to check and stood silently looking at An Nhiên's work for a long time.

"You did it so carefully," he said, his voice mixed with surprise and appreciation. "I can't see any traces."

"I want Ms. Tham to rest assured, teacher. She just wants everyone to remember her son as a kind person, not how he died." An Nhiên replied, still straightening her tie.

Mr. Nghi nodded, was silent for a moment, then spoke in a deeper voice. "In cases like this, the teacher always reminds me of one thing: never let your curiosity outweigh your respect for the deceased. You don't need to know the whole story to do your job well. Sometimes, not knowing is the greatest form of respect."

"I understand teacher." An Nhiên replied, and in her heart, that sentence was like a reminder that she would carry with her for a long time, not only for this case, but for all similar cases that may come in the future.

That evening, when An Nhiên was almost finished with the final cleaning, there was a light knock on the door. A middle-aged man, looking tired, stood outside and introduced himself as Cao Bá Nghiêm, Đắc Huy's father. He didn't go in completely, just stood in the doorframe, avoiding looking directly into the room.

"Can I ask... is my child being properly cared for?" He asked, his voice trembling, his hands tightening the brim of the hat he was holding.

"Yes, uncle. I did my best to give Huy the most dignity." An Nhiên replied, stepping closer to the door so he wouldn't have to look directly at the operating table if he wasn't ready.

Mr. Nghiem nodded, his eyes were red, but did not enter. "I... I can't go in yet. Sorry, I don't have the courage yet." He turned away, his back bent as if carrying an invisible rock, walking slowly down the dark hallway, leaving An Nhiên standing there, watching his disappearing shadow, his heart heavy with a sympathy that words could not fully describe.