Chapter 14 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

The town library where Doan Nha Ky works is much smaller than the library of Tra Lang province, a modest one-story building located next to the high school, with a few phoenix trees in bloom in the front yard. Lam and Duy Khoi arrived on a Monday morning, when the library was still empty, with only a few students sitting and studying in the corner of the reading room.

They discussed carefully before coming - not immediately talking about the real purpose, but introduced that they were conducting a research project on local literary history, and wanted to ask about the Doan family in Tra Lang, to avoid suddenly shocking the woman who had never known anything about the secret related to her aunt.

Nha Ky is a woman about thirty-four years old, with a small figure, wearing plastic-rimmed glasses, and the calm demeanor of someone used to working in the quiet space of books. She was rearranging a shelf of children's books when the two of them walked in, her hands quickly arranging each book in the correct numerical order, a meticulousness that made Lam suddenly feel close - it was reminiscent of the way she arranged the tools on the desk every morning at Vong Chu shop. When Duy Khoi introduced herself as a university lecturer researching literature of the sixties, she seemed a bit surprised but was willing to help, inviting them both to sit down at the small table and chairs next to the book counter.

"Our library is small, very few researchers come by," she said, pouring two glasses of iced tea to invite guests. "It must be very important for you to come all the way here."

"My Doan family doesn't have anyone famous in the literary world," she said, smiling lightly. "My great-grandfather worked as a small businessman, my grandfather worked as an elementary school teacher, and my father worked as a normal civil servant. I must have found the wrong family."

"Have you ever heard about a family member named Thuc Hien?" Lam asked, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible.

Nha Ky paused for a moment, her eyes behind her glasses sparkled with thought. "Thuc Hien... I vaguely remember, when I was little, I heard my grandmother mention an aunt, my great-grandfather's younger sister, who passed away early, apparently married far away and passed away due to illness. But the family rarely mentioned it, I don't know the details, I only remember seeing an old photo in the family album, my grandmother said it was her aunt, but didn't explain further."

Lam and Duy Khoi looked at each other, both realizing that this was the decisive moment - either continue beating around the bush, or frankly tell the truth. Duy Khoi nodded slightly at Lam, signaling for her to be the one to speak, perhaps because he understood that, in this moment, the story needed to be told by someone with a similar family responsibility, not an objective researcher.

"Sister Nha Ky," Lam said, her voice gentle but sincere, "I'm sorry for not telling the truth from the beginning. We weren't simply researching literary history. We found a bunch of manuscripts of poems and letters, hidden in the spine of an old book belonging to my family, signed Doan Thuc Hien, whose content matches almost completely with a famous book of poetry published under another person's name."

She told the whole story, from the discovery of the unusually thick spine lining, to the letters, to the meeting with Mr. Dien, to her grandfather's diary. Nha Ky sat silently listening, her hands clasped tightly around the edge of the table, her face gradually changing from surprise to shock, then to a deep emotion that she could not hide.

"My aunt..." she whispered, her voice trembling, "was she a poet? I've never heard anyone in the family mention that in my whole life. My family just said she died early and was unlucky in marriage, no one said anything more."

"Maybe even my own family doesn't know," Duy Khoi said softly. "Lam's grandfather is the only one who keeps this secret, and he only keeps it because of his promise to Mrs. Thuc Hien, not to tell anyone, including her children and grandchildren."

Nha Ky stood up, walked to the corner of the library, opened a small drawer containing personal belongings, took out an old leather wallet, inside was a small yellowed photo that she always carried with her - a habit from childhood passed down from her grandmother, keeping the family photo as a talisman. She placed the photo on the table, tremblingly pointing to a young woman's face standing in the corner of the photo.

Lam looked at the photo, his heart pounding. It was the same face she saw in the photo she found in her grandfather's wooden box — the same bright eyes, the same stubborn smile, the same high bun with a silver clip.

"This is my aunt," Nha Ky said, her voice choked up. "The only photo left in my family."

"I have another photo," Lam said, took out her phone, opened the photo she had taken from the wooden box, and showed it to Nha Ky. "My grandfather kept this picture for sixty years."

Nha Ky looked at the photo on her phone, then looked at the paper photo in her hand, the two photos were like two pieces of the same story separated for six decades, now accidentally placed next to each other by two women who had never known each other a few hours before.

"I don't know what to say," Nha Ky said, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I lived my whole life without knowing that in my bloodline there was a person who wrote such beautiful poems, then was forgotten so unfairly. I..." she hesitated, "I want to help. I want my aunt to be known as she deserves."

Lam took Nha Ky's hand, both women, one named Khuc, the other named Doan, shared a moment of connection that transcended the boundaries of strange families, only by a thread of fate spanning sixty years of history. Duy Khoi stood quietly observing, recording in his mind every detail of this moment - not for research purposes, but because he understood that this was the true heart of the entire story he was pursuing, a part that could not be measured by any scientific report.

Before saying goodbye, Nha Ky promised to ask the remaining elders in the family to see if anyone still kept any documents, letters, or memories about Ms. Thuc Hien, and agreed to act as the official representative for the Doan family if the incident needed to be widely announced in the future.

"I have to tell you something first," Nha Ky added, her voice somewhat hesitant as she saw the guests out the door. "My parents are older this year and have quite conservative personalities. They may be uncomfortable hearing this story, especially when it involves a dispute with a powerful family like the Ung family. I will try to persuade, but you also need to be mentally prepared, not everyone in my family will support right away."

"We understand," Lam replied. "This is not an easy thing for anyone, even for my own family. I just hope you consider it, not for our sake, but for Mrs. Thuc Hien herself - she deserves to be mentioned by her real name, even if it's only belatedly."

Nha Ky nodded, her eyes still filled with tears. "I promise to do my best. Thank you for bringing my aunt back, even if only through a few old pages, rather than letting her forever be just a faded name in an old photo that no one bothers to mention anymore."

When Lam and Duy Khoi left the library and stepped out into the noon sun, they both felt an important turning point had just occurred - they were no longer just searching for the truth for their own family, but now, this journey had become a common mission of two families, two families carrying within them a part of Thuc Hien's buried memory.

On the way home, Duy Khoi drove more slowly than usual, as if wanting to prolong the rare moment of peace amid all the recent turmoil. "I have a feeling," he said, "from today, things will go much faster. Once another family is involved, the news will be difficult to keep secret forever, no matter how careful we are."

Lam nodded, looking out at the green rice fields stretching on both sides of the road, the bundles of newly harvested straw arranged in small mounds under the noon sun, his heart filled with both hope and anxiety. She didn't know exactly what lay ahead, but she clearly felt that the door to the truth had now opened too wide to be closed again, and there was no way back for any of them anymore — not for her, not for Duy Khoi, and now, not even for Nha Ky, the strange woman who just a few hours ago did not know that she carried in her veins a part of the forgotten literary heritage of an entire era.