Chapter 4 — The End-of-Day Train

That young man came back on Friday night, then the following Monday night, and gradually, without anyone telling anyone, he became part of a familiar picture on the train at the end of the day, like Mr. Canh at Cau Doi station or Boi Linh with his sketchbook at the end of the car.

His name is Quach Thien An, what Khanh Chi knew was not because he introduced himself, but because one night, when the train stopped suddenly between two stations due to a signal problem, he stood up to help her calm down the worried passengers, introducing himself by name to a panicked old lady to reassure her that someone who knew was taking care of the matter. Khanh Chi stood nearby, heard the name, and silently repeated it in her head a few times as a professional habit - remembering the names of familiar passengers is part of her job.

In the days before that, he gradually became a face that she kept an eye on every night on shift. On Friday, he sat in the same place near the window, flipping through the worn leather notebook to take notes, occasionally stopping to ask her a few idle questions about train times and about stations he hadn't yet visited. The following Monday, he brought an old camera and asked her permission to take a few photos of the train carriage at dusk fading through the window, pale orange light pouring down on two rows of faded wooden seats. Khanh Chi didn't ask him what he took the photo for, he just nodded in agreement, thinking that perhaps it was also a way for the small corners of this ship to be remembered by someone, even if that person was a stranger they had only known for less than half a month.

Regular passengers also gradually took notice of him. Ms. Nhan often glanced at the way he gave up his seat to the elderly without anyone reminding him, nodding and praising "this guy is polite". Boi Linh, who was normally reserved with strangers, was the first person to start a conversation, asking him about the architectural drawings in the notebook, then the two talked passionately about the proportions of the dome, about how to get natural light, making Khanh Chi standing outside looking in and couldn't help but laugh because she saw that the sixteen-year-old girl suddenly had someone who had the same mind when it came to drawing. Only Mr. Thin, when passing by and seeing Thien An from afar during a stop at the station, paused for a second, his eyes narrowed as if trying to remember something, then shook his head, perhaps thinking he was just mistaken.

The signal problem that night was not serious, just a short-circuited light at a station, causing the train to stop and wait for safety confirmation before continuing to run. But those fifteen minutes of waiting in the dark, in the middle of a quiet field with only the chirping sounds of insects coming through the half-open window, became the time when Khanh Chi and Thien An talked to each other the most ever.

"Have you been doing this job long?" Thien An asked, leaning against the chair near where she was standing to monitor the situation.

"Four years as a train conductor, before that three years as a ticket checker. That's almost seven years." Khanh Chi replied, still looking out the window, waiting for a signal from Mr. Thin in the cockpit.

"You probably know this route very well by heart."

"Close your eyes and you'll know which part you're in," she said, not hiding a small hint of pride in her voice. "Every bridge, every curve, every station. My father used to say the same thing about him."

She said that before realizing that she had just revealed a personal detail to someone she had only known for less than two weeks. But there was something about Thien An that made her not feel the need to be as cautious as with other strange passengers - perhaps because of the way he listened, his eyes always directed directly at the person in front of him, without the superficial look of someone who was just killing time with gossip.

"Your father also worked on the railway?" Thien An asked, his voice showing a hint of tension that Khanh Chi had not yet realized.

"He was a train driver on this main line. He passed away, twelve years ago." She replied briefly, used to saying this sentence with a somewhat stiff calmness, a cover she had trained over the years to not have to explain further.

Thien An was silent for a long while, long enough for Khanh Chi to turn to look at him and see something unusual on his face - not the usual social sympathy seen in others when hearing this news, but a real shock, as if the information had just touched a sensitive nerve in him.

"Sorry," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "I didn't mean..."

"It's okay," Khanh Chi interrupted, used to having to reassure others every time they accidentally touched her sad story. "It's an old story."

At that moment, the signal light in front turned green, Mr. Thin blew the whistle to signal that the train was ready to continue. Khanh Chi quickly returned to her work position, not having time to notice the expression on Thien An's face - if she had paid attention, she would have probably recognized his hands clasping the edge of the chair, and his eyes looking out the dark window were no longer the eyes of an architect curious about ancient architecture, but the eyes of a person who had just discovered that he was standing right in the heart of the story he had been silently searching for many months.

The train continued to run, bringing everyone back to Van Phong safely, fifteen minutes later than usual. When getting off the station, Thien An lingered a bit, watching Khanh Chi cleaning the train car before locking the door.

"Miss Chi," he called, calling her by her correct name for the first time — he must have heard someone call her that on previous trips. "Thank you for tonight. You handled the situation very calmly."

"Thanks to you for helping me calm down the older ladies," she replied, smiling slightly. "Who are you visiting in Van Phong? I see you go this route often."

"My grandmother is here," Thien An replied, but his eyes drifted away a bit, as if he was considering whether to say more or not. Finally he just added: "Besides, I have some personal things I need to find out in this area."

"Architectural work?"

"It's also related," he replied vaguely, then smiled slightly and changed the subject. "This train is so beautiful. I have never been on a railway that has retained so many original features."

Khanh Chi clearly sensed that he was avoiding something, but she did not inquire further, partly out of professional politeness, partly because in her heart there was also a curiosity mixed with sympathy that she could not yet explain. "Thank you for your compliment. Many people now just find it old and slow."

"Old doesn't mean it's not worth keeping," Thien An said, her voice suddenly becoming unusually serious. "Sometimes the oldest things carry the most truths that people don't want to face."

That sentence hung in the air for a moment, making Khanh Chi look at him more attentively. But before she could ask more, he bowed and quickly walked out of the station gate, his figure disappearing into the dark street leading towards the old house where his grandmother lived.

That night, when she got home and ate a late meal with her mother, Khanh Chi still couldn't stop thinking about Thien An's last words. Her mother, Mrs. Tieu Thi Hong, noticed her daughter's unusual mood and asked:

"What's going on today, kid? I'm still absent-minded while eating."

"It's okay, mom. The train had a signal problem and stopped in the middle of the road for a while." Khanh Chi replied, not wanting to tell more about Thien An, partly because she did not clearly understand her own feelings.

Mrs. Hong looked at her daughter for a moment, a mother's eyes were more insightful than any explanation, but she did not ask further, just quietly gave her another piece of braised fish. "Eat more, work all day, you're getting skinny."

Mrs. Hong's noodle shop is located close to the station gate, there are only a few plastic tables stacked in the corner now because it's past customer hours, and the smell of bone broth still lingers in the evening air. This is where Khanh Chi grew up, where she used to sit and do homework on a stool while waiting for her mother to prepare the goods, and also where, in the years when her father was still around, the three of them still gathered for a late dinner after each shift. Since the day my father passed away, the restaurant is still open, just a tray of meals, now there are only two people left, and the gossip between mother and son has gradually decreased, replaced by familiar silences that both implicitly understand is a way to avoid touching the common pain.

"Hey mom," Khanh Chi suddenly spoke up, taking a spoonful of soup to have something to do while her mind was still wandering somewhere. "Once upon a time, when dad passed away, was there anyone named Quach? The guy who worked as a signal guard?"

Mrs. Hong stopped her chopsticks midway, just for a very short moment, but enough for Khanh Chi to notice. "Why do you ask?"

"Yes, I heard it vaguely. It's nothing, Mom." Khanh Chi quickly defended, feeling that there was something wrong with her mother's reaction, but she did not want to dig deeper right now, when she herself did not know what she was suspecting.

Mrs. Hong was silent for a moment before responding, trying to keep her voice calm. "It's a long time ago, my child. I don't remember it clearly. Eat before it gets cold."

That answer, instead of reassuring her, made Khanh Chi even more convinced that there was something her mother was deliberately hiding, some hidden corner of the story twelve years ago that even the closest person had never fully revealed to her.

Khanh Chi smiled and continued eating, but Thien An's words still echoed in her head - "sometimes the oldest things carry the most truths that people don't want to face" - like a small prophecy that she didn't have enough clues to decode, but it was enough to make her sleep that night more restless than usual, interspersed with fragmented images of her father's face, of Thien An's eyes when she heard the news of his death, and of the pass called Deo. Vong lies quietly in the darkness, where a part of her past is still buried and no one has ever dug it up.