Chapter 2 — The End-of-Day Train

The third station on the line, people used to call it Cau Doi station because nearby there were two parallel iron bridges spanning a small river branch, where Mr. Ninh Ba Canh always stood and waited at the exact hour of twenty to fifteen. Khanh Chi saw his figure from afar, wearing an old felt hat slightly askew, a bamboo cane in his right hand, standing straight even though he was seventy-eight years old, as if he was still in the position of a station master waiting to welcome the train into the station according to the ritual he had kept for decades on the job.

"Mr. Canh, how are you?" Khanh Chi offered her hand to help him up the steps, even though he never really needed that help — it was just a habit between the two, a way for them to greet each other every night.

"Good, good. And you, is the train empty or crowded tonight?" Mr. Canh asked, his voice still bright despite his age, his eyes quickly glanced across the rows of seats as if he were counting, a professional reflex that has never disappeared even though he has been retired for nearly twenty years.

"About thirty-five, sir. Same as always."

Mr. Canh nodded and sat down in a familiar row of seats near the window in the middle of the car, where he could most clearly see the scenery on both sides of the tracks passing by in the dark. He served as Van Phong station chief for twenty-two years, before retiring and ceding his position to someone else. His wife passed away a long time ago, his children have all settled down in the city, he is the only one left in the old house near the station, and every night he still takes this last train of the day - not because he has anything to do at Cau Doi, but just to get on the train, sit for a while, then get off again at the next station, walk home. Khanh Chi once asked him why he did that, he just smiled and replied: "Sitting on this train, I feel like I'm still working. Being at home alone is very sad, son."

She understands that more than anyone.

The train continued to roll, leaving Cau Doi station, passing through a section of track running parallel to a small river sparkling with the new moon just rising on the horizon. Khanh Chi walked down to the end of the car, where Dieu Boi Linh sat crouched by the window, a sketchbook open on her lap, a pencil gliding quickly across the page following lines that Khanh Chi immediately recognized at a glance - it was the shape of the train, seen from the corner of the car where she sat, with the rooftops in the distance behind as the background.

"Linh's ticket, Miss Chi," Boi Linh said, without raising her head, her hand still continuing to draw.

"Yes, I know, just keep drawing." Khanh Chi smiled, briefly sitting in the opposite seat for a moment - one of the small perks of being a long-time train captain, when she knew by heart which customers needed what, which customers just needed to be quiet. Boi Linh is sixteen years old, in the eleventh grade at Thanh Chau high school, every night she studies extra classes until half past seven and then rushes to the station in time for the train, because her mother is busy doing business at the market and has no one to pick her up. I draw in every spare moment — during recess, on the bus, and especially on the train at the end of this day, where the dim yellow lights and the steady rocking of the train car, as she says, "make everything look slower, easier to draw."

"What are you drawing today?" Khanh Chi asked.

Boi Linh turned the notebook around for her to see. It is a sketch of Van Phong station platform seen from inside the train car when leaving the station, with the figure of a person standing to see someone off, his arm raised and waving, a long shadow cast on the station platform under the light.

"Very beautiful," Khanh Chi said honestly. "Are you planning on going to art school?"

Boi Linh slightly lowered her eyes, pursed her lips a bit before replying: "I really want to, teacher. But the tuition there is high, and my mother doesn't understand the use of drawing. I'm saving money, teaching drawing to the kids in the neighborhood on the weekends, and getting every penny or that."

Khanh Chi was silent for a moment, then patted her shoulder. "Just keep that dream. There's a way, I just haven't seen it all yet."

She stood up and continued her work checking tickets, her heart still lingering on Boi Linh's story. She thought of herself at sixteen years old, when her only dream at that time was simply to sit in the cockpit with her father, hands on the controls like him, even though her grandmother and mother both dismissed it, saying "it's a very hard job for a girl to do that". Perhaps every generation has a dream that adults consider unrealistic, and perhaps that's why she always tries to never say that to anyone on this train.

In the last row of seats, Ms. Dinh Thi Nhan was nodding off, two large bags of raw vegetables placed at her feet, the smell of water spinach and mustard greens lingering on her sleeves. Ms. Nhan works at Thanh Chau wholesale market and raises her two children alone after her husband left the country nearly ten years ago. Every day she wakes up at 3 a.m., takes the early train to the market, then takes the last train home in the evening, her arms always heavy with unsold goods, which she takes home to share with neighbors or save to cook for her children. Khanh Chi gently passed by, without waking her up to check the ticket - she remembered Nhan's face, the route she took every day, without needing to check the ticket to know for sure that she had a monthly ticket.

Nearby, a young girl wearing a white blouse wrinkled after a shift, her head leaning against the glass window, eyes closed but not yet asleep. That's Tuong Nhat Ha, a night nurse at the district hospital. The train at the end of the day is a rare break between one shift and another, where she can nap for a few dozen minutes before going home to shower and then rushing back to the hospital. Nhat Ha and Khanh Chi are almost the same age, got to know each other through a few short conversations on the train, and gradually became a special type of friends - a friendship that only exists during a fixed time frame every night, between two stations, but is deep enough to know each other more than people you meet regularly in real life.

Khanh Chi gently pulled the window curtain next to where Nhat Ha sat to block the light from coming in, then quietly continued without waking her up.

The train runs steadily in the night, the sound of iron wheels tapping on the rail joints creates a familiar music that perhaps only those who have been with this route for a long time can fully feel its beauty - an unobtrusive beauty, just quietly present, like the people sitting in these two old train cars.

At the fifth station, Khanh Chi returned to the cockpit, stood against the door and chatted with Mr. Thin while the train ran on a long straight line without much attention.

"Uncle Thin, have you and your father worked together for a long time?"

Mr. Thin lit a cigarette - now that the train had left the station area, he allowed himself to break the rules a little - took a long drag before responding, his voice slow, as if he was searching a memory compartment that he had not opened for a long time.

"Seventeen years, my son. Your father and I started the job at almost the same time. Back then, when we were young, the two of us often swapped shifts so that one of us could have time off for a friend's wedding or a relative's death anniversary. Your father is the most careful person I've ever known. He knows every turn and every slope on this route like the back of his hand, knowing where to slow down before the signs."

"Is that so..." Khanh Chi hesitated, the question that had been hanging in her heart for twelve years had never been fully put into words.

Mr. Thin glanced at her, immediately understanding what she was about to ask, but he just sighed, his eyes still glued to the tracks ahead. "What happened that night was very complicated, my child. There are things that your father cannot decide alone. Let's talk slowly, the train is running now, I have to concentrate."

Khanh Chi nodded, not pressing him further. She knew that Mr. Thin would never lie to her, but she also knew that there are memories that take a very long time to open, even after twelve years have passed.

She stood a moment longer in the cockpit, watching the train's headlights form a long streak on the tracks ahead, on both sides were dark shadows of trees passing by. On nights like this, she suddenly realized she was breathing to the rhythm of the steady tapping of the iron wheel, as if her body had learned the route better than her memory. Mr. Thin glanced over, saw that she was silent, then patted her shoulder lightly, did not say anything more, just signaled with his eyes that he understood, that there were things that did not need to be said to be comforting.

"Go back and check your ticket, you're almost at the station," he reminded, his voice returning to its usual tone, dispelling some of the quiet atmosphere just now.

She returned to the passenger car and continued the final round of ticket checking before the train entered Van Phong station. Outside, the darkness was completely covered, only the lights from a few small hamlets peeked out in the distance, and ahead, somewhere at the end of the tracks, was the familiar light of the station, where her mother was probably cleaning up the last load of noodle soup at the end of the day, waiting for her to come home for a late dinner as usual.

She did not know that the story of Mr. Thin that had just revealed a small corner, along with the face of the strange young man she glimpsed at Thanh Chau station tonight, would soon become two threads that fate was silently pulling together, right on this very last train of the day.