Chapter 8 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

The burial night took place at nine o'clock in the evening, later than usual, at the request of the family to avoid the attention of neighbors around the neighborhood where Mr. Cao Đắc Huy used to live. Only a few of his closest friends were invited — his parents, an aunt, and a former classmate — and the family planned to hold a formal visitation the next morning with a simple announcement of "passed away suddenly."

An Nhiên and Mr. Nghi performed the shroud ceremony together, placing the body in the coffin in the traditional order: lined with cloth, folded arms and legs, covered with a towel, then invited the family to come closer for a last look before closing the temporary lid to prepare for the visitation tomorrow morning. The atmosphere in the room was heavier than any case An Nhiên had experienced recently, not because of the loud crying - on the contrary, everyone tried to keep quiet, as if afraid that a sound too loud would cause the secrets they were hiding together to be revealed.

The aunt, after looking at her niece one last time, walked out into the hallway and stood crying alone. The old classmate, a young man about the same age as Đắc Huy, stood silently next to the coffin for a long time, his hands clutching the coffin's edge, his lips pursed as if trying to hold back something he couldn't say. Only Mr. Cao Bá Nghiêm did not appear, even though he arrived at Vĩnh An's gate in the afternoon - he sat outside the car all evening, not having enough strength to get in, leaving his wife, Vũ Diệu Thắm, to take care of all the procedures alone.

Before leaving, the old classmate lingered for a while, pulling An Nhiên to the corner of the hallway, his voice small but urgent. "Miss, Huy and I have been close since high school. He hasn't texted much in recent months. I've asked a few times but he always said okay, it's okay. Now that I think about it, I wish I had asked more carefully..." He left his sentence unfinished, his hands clasped tightly together. "Please, take good care of him for me. He deserves to be treated well, no matter what has happened."

"Don't worry, I will do my best." An Nhiên replied, watching him leave with a heavy look no less than a family member.

Near the end of the session, the door opened slightly and Cao Bá Nghiêm walked in, slowly, as if each step had to overcome some invisible barrier in his heart. He stood a few meters away from the coffin, not coming closer, his red eyes looking at his son from afar. Ms. Tham walked over, grabbed her husband's hand, said nothing, just stood next to him in silence. A few minutes later, he turned away and walked out first, leaving Ms. Tham alone with her child.

After everyone had left, Ms. Tham still lingered, sitting on a plastic chair next to the coffin, with no intention of leaving. An Nhiên, who was packing up tools in the corner of the room, did not urge her, just quietly did her work, giving her own space.

"Miss An Nhiên," Ms. Tham spoke, her voice hoarse because she had cried so much in the past two days. "Can you sit with me for a bit? I don't want to be here alone, but I also don't want to invite anyone else in."

An Nhiên put down the tool tray, pulled a chair to sit a few steps away from her, not too close, so she could still feel like she had her own space if needed.

"You know," Ms. Tham began, her voice monotonous, as if she were telling a story she had repeated many times in her head but never said aloud to anyone. "Three months ago, my child said something to me. At the time, I didn't pay much attention. He said, 'Mom, sometimes I feel so tired. I don't know what to do with life.' I was cooking rice, so I just repeated, 'Everyone is tired sometimes. Try hard, work hard, and you'll get used to it.'"

She stopped, her hands clasped together on her thighs. "I thought he said that because of work pressure, boss yelling, deadlines a lot. I didn't expect..." Her voice choked, unable to continue.

An Nhiên said nothing, just sat still, letting her silence become a support, not judging, not trying to fill the void with empty words of comfort.

"He is a gentle, quiet child, has been like that since childhood," Ms. Tham continued, her voice gradually calming, as if speaking out was helping her anchor a part of herself. "If something's sad, you rarely complain to anyone, just keep it to yourself. His father and I are busy with work, so we rarely sit for a long time to ask him carefully. Looking back now, I wish I had asked one more question back then, sat a little longer, maybe things would have been different."

"I did everything a mother could do in her power at that time." An Nhiên spoke softly, her voice careful, not wanting to give any advice beyond her role. "No one can know everything in advance, sister. I think the important thing now is not that you have done anything wrong, but that you have been with Huy until the last moment, and you are still here, for him."

Ms. Tham looked at her, her puffy eyes shining with something between gratitude and pain. "You're young but you speak so maturely."

"I have been doing this job for a long time and have heard many stories from many different families." An Nhiên replied, smiling slightly, a sad but sincere smile. "I learned that there is no universal formula for pain, each family has its own way of carrying it, and no one has the right to judge how another person chooses to continue living." Ms. Tham nodded, wiped her tears with her hand, then stood up and walked closer to the coffin one last time before leaving. "My child, I'm sorry for not understanding you in time. I love you, I will always love you," she spoke, her voice breaking completely, but this time, it was a cry of greater relief, as if something had been somewhat relieved after being said.

*

After Ms. Tham left Vĩnh An, Mr. Nghi entered the room and saw An Nhiên still sitting quietly in the same place, her eyes distant.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his voice concerned.

"I'm fine, teacher." An Nhiên replied, stood up, and started cleaning up the remaining tools. "It's just... this case makes me think a lot about how much I know about the people around me, and how much they keep in their hearts that they don't know about."

"That's one of the biggest lessons of this profession, kid," Mr. Nghi said, his voice was low. "Every shift that goes by, I not only learn about the deceased, but also learn about the way people live, love, and sometimes, fail to understand each other. I think, if anyone does this job long enough and doesn't learn something for their own lives, they've missed out on a very valuable part of the job." An Nhiên nodded, did not say more, just continued the cleaning work in silence, but in her mind, Ms. Tham's words - "I wish I had asked one more question back then, sat a little longer" - kept echoing, like a reminder that she needed to call her father more, ask him more carefully, and not let the conversations between father and daughter stop at just familiar short questions.

Nearly eleven o'clock at night, when everything was finished, An Nhiên sat alone in the small employee break room, took out her phone, hesitated for a moment and then called her father, even though she knew he was probably asleep at this time. The bell rang three times before someone picked up. His voice was a bit sleepy but he still tried to stay awake when he heard his daughter's name appear on the screen.

"What's wrong with calling at this hour?"

"No, it's nothing dad, I just wanted to ask about you." An Nhiên replied, her voice softened. "Dad, have you been eating and sleeping regularly lately? Do your arms and legs still hurt a lot?"

"It's better, my son. Lately I've been taking less heavy orders and only doing small things," Trần Hữu Lam replied, his voice gradually becoming more alert. "Why do you suddenly ask so carefully?"

"I just worked a shift, seeing that I have a family... I'm sorry I didn't ask each other carefully before." An Nhiên said, without going into details. "I think we should ask each other more questions, dad. Don't wait until it's too late to regret it." The other end of the line was silent for a moment, then her father replied, his voice becoming warmer. "Yes, I think so too. From now on, call me more often, tell me about work, anything, I like to hear your voice."

"Yes, I will call more often." An Nhiên smiled, even though her eyes were a little teary. "Okay, Dad, go back to sleep. I'll go home and rest too. I love you so much."

"Dad loves you too," Trần Hữu Lam replied, his voice was slightly hoarse, then they both hung up the phone in a rare peace of mind.

After hanging up the phone, she sat a while longer in the break room, feeling a small relief creep into her heart, then stood up and went back to the preparation room to complete the last part of her work before leaving.

Before turning off the lights in the preparation room that night, she stood for a moment next to the temporarily closed coffin, looked at the warm yellow light reflecting on the polished wooden surface, and whispered, loud enough for only herself to hear: "May you rest in peace. Your mother loves you very much, even though there are times when she can't say it in time."