Chapter 3 — Medicinal Garden After Hospital

The next afternoon, as promised, Quyen stopped by Mr. Tang Van Loc's house right after work. He had prepared a flashlight and rubber boots in case the garden was overgrown with weeds and damp after many days of no one taking care of it. "Let's go, son, before it gets dark," he said, his voice mixed with excitement and excitement that he couldn't hide.

The two of them walked to the back gate of the hospital, which led straight into the medicinal garden. Quyen stopped in front of the wooden gate, which had rotted in several places, her hand shaking slightly as she placed it on the old lock that she knew for sure the key was still kept in her mother's desk drawer at home. She had been carrying that key with her since last night, but even now, her hand was still hesitant.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Loc asked, his eyes full of concern.

"I'm fine," Quyen replied, took a deep breath and put the key in the lock. The creaking sound of rusty hinges echoed in the quiet space, the gate slowly opened, revealing the entire garden in the desolation of weeds and dry leaves.

Stepping through the gate, Quyen clearly felt a rush of emotions, so strong that she had to stop and stand still in the middle of the small gravel path, now almost completely covered by weeds. The smell of damp soil mixed with the faint remaining scent of a few herbs still resiliently growing, brought her back to childhood memories, the early mornings with her mother in the garden, hand in hand, listening to her tell stories about each type of plant.

"Here, in this area, my mother used to grow polyscias fruticosa, that is the area where artichokes are grown, and the other corner is a seedling nursery," Mr. Loc pointed, his voice low and full of nostalgia as he led Quyen along the beds of land that now only left faint traces of a time when they were carefully cared for. "I still remember, your mother once said, each type of plant has its own personality, needs to be treated in its own way, the same formula cannot be applied to all."

They continued to go deeper inside, approaching the small warehouse hidden behind a bamboo grove in the corner of the garden. The wooden door was covered in dust and cobwebs, but was still intact. Mr. Loc helped Quyen push the heavy door open, revealing a small space inside, filled with jars and jars of dried medicinal herbs, and bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters, covered with a layer of dust over time.

"Where is the chest you mentioned?" Quyen asked, her eyes scanning the small room full of memories.

"In the innermost corner, under the wooden counter," Mr. Loc pointed and walked over with Quyen. After a few minutes of moving the old counter, a small wooden chest, covered in dust but still sturdy, appeared before the two people's eyes. Quyen knelt down, her hands trembling as she opened the chest lid.

Inside are dozens of notebooks that have turned yellow over time, neatly and neatly arranged - her mother's familiar handwriting appears on each page, meticulously recording each remedy, each case, each type of medicinal herb with its specific uses and preparations. Quyen picked up a notebook, flipped through each page, tears could not be contained when she realized that this was a treasure trove of knowledge that her mother had diligently accumulated throughout her life.

"Your mother took notes so carefully," Quyen whispered, her voice choked. "I never knew, she still kept so many things."

Mr. Loc sat down next to her, picked up another notebook, and flipped through it with emotional eyes. "My mother always believed that knowledge must be recorded and passed on to the next generation, it cannot be lost along with a person," he said, his voice warm. "She always said, maybe you'll need them later."

Those words made Quyen startled. Did her mother have an early premonition that, one day, she would need to return to what she left behind? She flipped through another notebook, reaching the last page, where there was a short note, the handwriting was a bit more shaky than the previous pages, as if written while her health was weakening.

"Daughter, if one day you read these lines, maybe I won't be with you anymore. I know you always believe in science, in what has been clearly proven, and I respect that. But I hope you understand, traditional medicine is not superstition, but a whole system of knowledge compiled over hundreds of years of experience. If you can, please keep this garden, not for me, but for those who still need it."

Quyen hugged the notebook in her arms, letting her tears flow uncontrollably. That was the first time, after more than a year since her mother's death, that she truly allowed herself to cry fully, to face the pain that she had been trying to bury for so long.

Mr. Loc quietly placed his hand on her shoulder, not saying anything, just giving her space to express her feelings. A long while later, when she had calmed down, Quyen raised her head, her eyes more determined than ever. “I will keep this garden, grandfather,” she said, her voice firm. "I will start from the beginning and read everything my mother left behind, so as not to disappoint her."

"I believe you can do it," Mr. Loc replied, a gentle smile clearly visible on his face full of time wrinkles. "And I will always be here, ready to help you whenever you need it."

Before leaving the warehouse, Mr. Loc lingered, his hand gently caressing an old ceramic jar placed in the corner, his eyes distant as if lost in the past years. "You know, this jar, my mother used to brew medicinal wine to nourish the elderly in the neighborhood at the end of the year," he said, his voice slow. "There were years when the harvest was bad and people didn't have money to pay them. My mother still gave it to me for free, just told them to pay later when they had it. She didn't do this job for the money, but for her heart."

Quyen listened, each little story of Mr. Loc was like a puzzle piece, gradually reconstructing a more complete portrait of the mother she always thought she understood, but it turned out there were still many things she had never known. "I wish I had spent more time asking my mother about these things, when she was alive," she said, her voice filled with regret.

"It's okay," Mr. Loc comforted, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Now, you still have the opportunity to learn, to continue. That's the most important thing, not what you missed in the past."

Together they carried the chest out of the warehouse and carefully placed it on the small cart that Mr. Loc had prepared in advance. On the way to push the cart out of the garden, Quyen kept looking back at the familiar beds and tree stumps, as if trying to remember every smallest detail, fearing that these could be the last images if the hospital's leveling plan was actually implemented.

When the two left the warehouse, carrying the precious chest, the sky outside had turned the dark purple of late sunset. Quyen looked back at the garden one last time before locking the gate. Her heart was filled with a new feeling - no longer fear or avoidance like before, but a strong determination to protect and revive the legacy that her mother had devoted her whole life to cultivating.

Returning home, Quyen and Mr. Loc carried the chest into the small living room, placing it neatly on the old wooden table. Mr. Dao Van Thanh, her father, came out of the kitchen, stunned when he saw the familiar chest, his eyes flashed with confusion and emotion. "This is..." he left his sentence unfinished, his hand gently touching the lid of the chest as if he was touching a part of a memory he had not dared to face for a long time.

"I found mom's medicine notebook, dad," Quyen said, her voice gentle. "I plan to read everything again, relearn my mother's profession, to keep the garden."

Mr. Thanh was silent for a long time, his finger still placed on the lid of the wooden chest, then nodded slightly, his eyes shining with a light that Quyen had not seen for a long time. "If you really want to learn, I will help you with everything I can remember," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "In the past, my father also helped my mother many times in the garden, from watering, weeding, to drying and preparing each type of medicinal herbs before storing them in storage."

That was the first time, after more than a year, that Quyen heard her father proactively mention helping with medicine, and in that moment, she felt a fragile but warm ray of hope, that perhaps, although the journey ahead was still arduous, she would not have to walk alone on the path to rediscovering her family's heritage.