Chapter 1 — Old Painting Restoration Workshop

At six o'clock in the morning, the first sunlight of the day shined through the north window of Bach Nien workshop, just as her grandfather had always told her: "The workshop door must face north, child. The north sun is not harsh, does not change color all day long, so that your eyes can't be deceived when looking at the paintings." To Mien Thu stood in the middle of the old wooden room, taking a deep breath of the smell of linseed oil, pine varnish and the faint musty smell of paper mache that had stuck to every fiber of the wall for sixty years. That smell, to outsiders, may just be an old, unpleasant smell. To her, it is the smell of home.

Hang But Lane is hidden behind a row of bustling old streets. The alley is so small that first-time visitors often have to ask for directions three or four times. But that name is not accidental - since the French colonial period, this was once a gathering place for brush makers, picture framers, and framers, before the war swept most of them away. Her grandfather, Mr. To Bach Nien, was one of the few people who stayed, buying this old three-story tube house in 1965, scraping off the lime mold, putting in long wooden tables, and naming the workshop Bach Nien - a hundred years, according to him, is long enough for an old painting to be looked at fairly, vindicated or forgotten forever, and he wanted his workshop to always be patient there, enough to wait for the Really go a hundred years if necessary.

Mien Thu put on a worn burlap apron, rolled up her sleeves, and started her morning work like a ritual: checking the humidity in the room with an old meter, cleaning the glass table, rearranging dozens of small bottles of solvent in the correct alphabetical order that her grandfather had taught her since she was a child, not reaching the edge of the table. On the shelf, three paintings were waiting for her: an oil painting of a landscape by an unknown artist, torn at one corner because of mold; a family portrait heavily stained from years of incense smoke; and a lacquered screen is peeling off in small pieces like a snake's skin. Nothing big, nothing famous. But that's what's left of a workshop that was once spoken of with respect by all northern collectors.

"You got up so early." La Thuy Chi's voice rang out from the stairs, accompanied by the sound of slippers swishing. The girl was twenty-two years old, an apprentice at the factory for nearly two years, her hair tied up, her hands still stained with blue stains from yesterday that hadn't been completely washed off. "I thought you were going to sleep more today. How long were you up last night making the screen?"

"A little past midnight." Mien Thu did not raise her head, her eyes remained glued to the peeling lacquer. "You have to keep the humidity stable so that the paint layer hardens slowly, you can't rush it. I check every two hours."

"I feel tired listening to it." Thuy Chi walked over, sat down in the chair opposite, and opened her work notebook. "Ah, this morning someone called the factory at seven o'clock. I answered the phone but you were still sleeping so I told them to call back."

"Who's calling at that hour?"

"They didn't say their names, they just said they were calling from a museum, they sounded very important." Thuy Chi shrugged. "Probably another one of those wrong number calls like before."

Mien Thu didn't pay much attention and continued working. Bach Nien Workshop, since the day his grandfather passed away, no longer receives "important" calls like before. Three years ago, when Mr. Bach Nien was still alive, even though he was weak, the factory phone still rang regularly - private collectors, sometimes even small museum units, all came to him to ask for their "still eyes" to appraise before deciding to restore a precious painting. Now, the main customers are families who bring altar paintings and portraits of their ancestors to have them cleaned, and sometimes a few small galleries send works that are not too valuable. Enough to keep the factory from closing, but not enough to pay an apprentice like Thuy Chi without the savings left by her grandfather.

She looked up at the black and white photo hanging on the wall, next to the grandfather clock that had stopped running a long time ago but no one could bear to leave it. In the photo, a thin middle-aged man, wearing round glasses, is bending over a large painting with eyes so focused that it is almost stern. The photo was taken in 1978, according to the handwritten text on the back that she had read countless times. Her grandfather, at that time, was mentally many years younger than she is now, even though his hair turned gray early.

"Grandpa," she whispered softly, a habit from childhood, "our workshop has another normal day today."

But "normal" didn't last long. At nearly nine o'clock, when Mien Thu was mixing a new batch of solvent to test on the corner of the screen, the factory desk phone rang again. Thuy Chi picked up the phone, then immediately looked at her, her serious expression different from before.

"Sister, it's Hong Lam Fine Arts Museum. They want to meet directly with the person in charge of the workshop."

Mien Thu put down the small brush, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked over to answer the phone. The voice on the other end of the line was deep, slow, clearly the voice of someone used to presenting in front of a crowd.

"Sorry for calling early. I am the assistant of Ms. Quach Thien Kim, Director of the Hong Lam Museum of Fine Arts. Ms. Kim would like to make an appointment to meet Ms. To Mien Thu in person today, if possible. There is a project... quite urgent and quite important."

Mien Thu held the receiver a little tighter. Hong Lam Fine Arts Museum is not a strange name - it is one of the most famous fine arts museums in the North, where many works of famous artists of the Indochina fine arts period have been displayed. Her grandfather, during his lifetime, was invited to evaluate them twice. But for the past three years, there hasn't been a single invitation from that place to the Bach Nien factory anymore.

"Yes, I can arrange it this afternoon." She tried to keep her voice calm even though her heart was beating faster than usual. "May I ask what the project involves?"

The assistant hesitated for a moment, as if considering how much to say over the phone. "It's a painting that needs to be restored before a big exhibition. Mrs. Kim will explain the details when she meets you. But I can say in advance - this is a very important work for the museum, and Mrs. Kim especially emphasized that she wanted Bach Nien workshop to undertake it, not anywhere else."

The call ended just a few minutes later, with an appointment at the museum office at 3:00 p.m. Mien Thu put down the receiver and stood still for a moment in the middle of the workshop, her hands still sticky with a bit of solvent that had a faintly pungent smell.

"What's going on, sister?" Thuy Chi asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"I don't know yet." Mien Thu turned back to look at the photo of her grandfather on the wall, then looked down at her hands - the hands that had learned how to hold restoration brushes since she was twelve years old, under strict instruction that sometimes made her cry, from the man in that photo. "But I have a feeling... today won't be a normal day."

At noon, she took the opportunity to read a few pages of her grandfather's old notebook - not a diary, just notes on techniques, solvent recipes, and a list of varnishes from time to time. She still kept that habit every time something big was coming up, as if rereading his familiar italic handwriting might give her a little more courage. In the bottom drawer of the desk, there was another stack of notebooks, thicker, with worn leather covers—the personal diaries he left behind, which she had never finished reading. Every time she tried to open it, she felt a heavy heart, as if afraid of touching something too personal, too sacred to read hastily.

She closed the recipe book, placed her hand on the stack of diaries for a moment, then withdrew her hand without opening it.

"Later," she told herself. "There's still a lot to worry about today."

But she didn't know that in just a few hours, the painting she was about to receive in the workshop would make it impossible for her to delay opening those notebooks any longer — and that the answers to so many things she had never dared to ask were lying dormant there, waiting for so many years.

That afternoon, Mien Thu wore the most decent clothes in her closet - an old but still straight white shirt, black pants that she only wore when meeting important customers - stood in front of the large mirror in the corner of the workshop, adjusting the hem of her shirt. Thuy Chi stood behind her, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes both worried and excited.

"Remember to bring the factory's profile with you. Old articles about your grandfather too, so they know we're not an anonymous factory."

"I know." Mien Thu smiled, but the smile was somewhat forced. She looked into her eyes in the mirror and saw a glimpse of her grandfather in there - with those serious eyes, the same worry about keeping the name Bach Nien from being overshadowed amid so many changes in the times.

She slung her file bag over her shoulder, walked out of the factory door, and walked along the narrow and winding Hang But alley, where each paving brick had worn smooth under the footsteps of generations. The afternoon sun shines down on the mossy tiled roof, dyeing the entire alley in an unusually warm orange-yellow color, as if the alley itself is holding its breath waiting for something to change.

Little did she know, when she stepped out of that old wooden door, she was taking the first steps on a journey that would overturn everything she had ever believed to be the truth about the most beloved grandfather in her life — and about the very origins of the Bach Nien workshop.