Chapter 9 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

On Wednesday morning, the memorial service for Cao Đắc Huy took place with a brief notice posted on the Vĩnh An bulletin board: "Visiting Mr. Cao Đắc Huy, born in the year two thousand, passed away due to an accident." There are no other details, just as the family wanted. There were more visitors than An Nhiên expected - old classmates, company colleagues, relatives near and far - all shocked by the news that a healthy, twenty-six-year-old young man had passed away suddenly.

An Nhiên stood in the corner of the room as usual, observing each visitor's reaction when looking at the coffin. None of them showed any doubts or questioned the reason — the makeup and outfit she had prepared had fulfilled their role: maintaining the image of a calm, well-groomed guy, like he had always been in everyone's eyes.

Near the middle of the ceremony, an older woman, perhaps a distant relative, stood next to Ms. Vũ Diệu Thắm, whispering a question, her voice unable to hide her curiosity. "What accident did Huy have? Why did I hear it so suddenly? Just the other day I saw him healthy and going to work."

Ms. Tham paused for a second, a tense expression flashed across her face, but then she regained composure and replied briefly: "His nephew had an accident at home, sister. It's over, now I just hope everyone prays for him to rest in peace, don't ask any more questions, I love him."

The woman seemed a bit confused by the unexpectedly tough answer, but also realized the sensitivity of the situation, nodded, and did not ask further. An Nhiên, standing nearby, silently admired Ms. Tham's ingenuity - in just a few short days, the heartbroken mother learned how to protect her son, and protect herself, from questions that could deepen the unhealed wound.

There was another moment, near the end of the ceremony, when Cao Bá Nghiêm, for the first time during the funeral procession, fully entered the room and stood beside his wife in front of his son's coffin. He stood there, his hand trembling on the glass, his lips moving something wordlessly. Several relatives standing nearby, realizing the rare emotion of the man who rarely showed emotions, also remained silent, no one said another word.

He stood there for a long time, longer than anyone else in the ceremony, to the point that Ms. Tham had to gently pull his sleeve, reminding him that there were many people waiting to pay their respects. He nodded and took a step back, but his eyes never left his son's face. Before turning away completely, he leaned down very close to the coffin glass and said something very softly - An Nhiên stood close enough to vaguely hear a few words: "Dad, I'm sorry for yelling at you about your studies and exams." He didn't finish his sentence, turned away, one hand raised to cover his face.

Mr. Nghi, standing near An Nhiên at that time, sighed softly, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. "Many fathers still think being strict is the best way to protect their children. It's not until they lose their children that they realize that sometimes children just need a gentle question, not a standard to reach." An Nhiên nodded, didn't say anything more, but those words stuck deep in her heart, making her think about last night's call with her father, about the promise to call more often - a promise she reminded herself to keep, not to let it slip away like many other empty promises.

*

After the main ceremony, when most of the guests had left and only the family remained to prepare for the afternoon funeral ceremony, An Nhiên took the time to clean up the preparation room. Nguyên Khang walked in, carrying a cup of hot tea, placing it on the table next to her.

"Is this case difficult for you?" He asked, sitting down in the chair opposite.

"It's difficult, but in a different way." An Nhiên replied, still rearranging the color boxes. "It's not that it's technically difficult, but it's difficult because I have to keep quiet, even though I know there's something very heavy behind it. Sometimes I wonder if it's right for me to keep quiet like that, or if I'm contributing to hiding something that should have been said, so that other families can learn something and avoid the same thing." Nguyên Khang was silent for a moment, thinking about her question, then replied, his voice slow. "I think, my job is not to decide what should be said or not, but to respect the family's choice in their most painful moment. Maybe later, when they have calmed down, Ms. Tham will choose her own way to share her son's story in her own way, to help others. But that is her choice, not mine." An Nhiên nodded, feeling somewhat relieved by his answer. "You're right. I'm just someone who does my part, not someone who judges or decides for anyone else."

"That's right." Nguyên Khang smiled slightly, pushing the tea cup towards her. "Drink some tea, then rest a bit before the afternoon burial ceremony. You've been working very hard these past few days."

An Nhiên received the cup of tea, took a sip, feeling the warmth spreading in her palm. She looked at Nguyên Khang, saw in his eyes an understanding that did not need to be explained in words, and in that brief moment, in the middle of a heavy work day, she felt grateful to have a colleague - and perhaps more than colleagues - always ready to be by her side, without judgment, without haste, simply present.

*

In the afternoon, Cao Đắc Huy's funeral procession left Vĩnh An in a special silence, with no loud ceremony music, only the low sound of chanting and the steady footsteps of the mourners. An Nhiên stood at the gate and watched, as always, until the convoy completely disappeared.

Three days later, a small bouquet of flowers was sent to Vĩnh An, without the sender's name, only a small handwritten card: "Thank you to the funeral home for helping our family keep the last days with our children in peace. We will never forget." An Nhiên received the bouquet of flowers from the receptionist, read the card, then brought it in and placed it in the corner of the preparation room, where she still kept a few small mementos from past special cases.

She placed the bouquet in a small ceramic vase, added water, then stepped back to look at it for a moment. White carnation petals mixed with a few light blue baby branches, simple but carefully chosen, not the kind of flowers people buy in a hurry. She thought about how Ms. Tham must have stood for a long time in front of the flower stand to choose this bouquet, weighing each branch, as if choosing the right type of flower was also a way for her to continue taking care of her son, even if it was only taking care of the people who helped her son pass away in a solemn way.

She doesn't know if Ms. Tham will ever find a way to tell her son's story in her own way, or if she can help anyone else who is silently suffering like Đắc Huy did. But she believes, no matter what, a mother's love for her child, even if it comes late in realizing it, is always a real thing, and does not need to be made public to become meaningful.

That evening, before leaving Vĩnh An, Mr. Nghi called An Nhiên into his small office and showed her a job application he had just received via email. "There is a young man, twenty-two years old, who just graduated from nursing, applying for an internship here. I plan to let him meet next week to see if he is suitable. If it's okay, I want you to be the one to directly guide me, because you are young and easier to share with than me."

An Nhiên took the application, skimmed through a few lines of basic information: name Bùi Diệu Thanh, native of a central province, short reason for applying - "desire to do meaningful work, help families in the most difficult times." She smiled slightly, remembering herself six years ago, when she first knocked on Mr. Nghi's office door for a similar reason.

"Yes, I'm ready to guide her, teacher." An Nhiên replied, folded the application, and placed it on the table. "I remember in the past, you patiently taught me little by little. Now it's my turn to pass it on. It's a good way, isn't it?"

"That's right." Mr. Nghi nodded, his eyes filled with pride. "This profession, if no one passes it on, will gradually disappear. I'm glad that you are ready for that role."

An Nhiên walked out of the office, walked across the hallway leading to the preparation room, where the light had turned off, leaving only a small streak of light shining from the crack in the door of the night duty room. She stood for a moment, looked at the dark yard outside, where Ms. Tham's bouquet of white carnations still emanated a light scent in the darkness, and thought that perhaps in a few months, when Diệu Thanh officially started work, she would tell that young girl about this case — not to scare her, but to let her understand, from the very first days, that this profession requires something even more important than skillful hands: the ability to keep quiet at the right time, and to know when. Respect is more important than truth.