Chapter 6 — The End-of-Day Train

On Friday nights, another passenger also regularly appears on the last train of the day: Mrs. Vuu Thi Dang, seventy years old, always wearing a worn tan Ba Ba shirt, carrying a small rattan basket containing incense sticks and a bouquet of newly picked yellow chrysanthemums. She boarded the train at Van Phong station, got off at the fifth station - the station closest to the foot of Vong Pass - and then walked nearly a kilometer of dirt road to the small cemetery where her husband was buried.

Khanh Chi has known her since she first started working as a ticket checker, and during those seven years, there has never been a Friday night when Mrs. Dang was absent, except for the weeks when she was seriously ill and had to be hospitalized. She always paid special attention to her, not necessarily because she was an elderly passenger in need of help, but because in her heart, Mrs. Dang's story always made her think of herself - a woman who kept the habit of going to a place associated with the deceased, as if by repeating that journey regularly, the other person would not really disappear.

There were rainy and windy nights, Khanh Chi once advised her to stay home, wait for the weather to stop before going, but Mrs. Dang just shook her head and smiled, saying that her grandfather had never been afraid of wind and rain when he was alive, he was a railway worker, and didn't have any days off, so she couldn't bear to let a rain stop her from visiting him. Every time that happens, Khanh Chi quietly prepares a thin raincoat and stores it in a small compartment at the front of the carriage, in case she forgets to bring it. It's one of those little things that isn't covered by any railway industry regulations, but has become an indispensable part of the way she does her job — taking care of each regular passenger like taking care of her own family members.

Tonight the sky is clear, a light wind blows through the half-open window, bringing with it the smell of young grass from the fields on both sides of the railway. Mrs. Dang sat down on a familiar row of chairs, placed a basket of chrysanthemums on her lap, and looked out with the distant eyes of someone who is so used to living with nostalgia that it is no longer a sharp pain, but has subsided into a peaceful part of everyday life.

That Friday night, when Thien An got on the train and happened to sit near Mrs. Dang, he noticed the basket of chrysanthemums in her hand and asked with his usual tact.

"Who are you visiting?"

"Visit my grandfather," Mrs. Dang replied, her voice somewhat shaky with age but still clear. "He passed away fifteen years ago, buried near the foot of the pass, where my old home was."

"Fifteen years and you still visit every week?" Thien An asked, his voice mixed with surprise and admiration.

Mrs. Dang smiled, a gentle smile mixed with something distant. "People often ask me that question. I think it's very simple, boy. When he was still alive, I cooked rice every week waiting for him to come home. Now that he can't come home anymore, I go to his place, just like keeping old habits. If I don't go, I'll miss it, it's very sad."

Khanh Chi, standing nearby checking tickets, heard that sentence and suddenly felt a familiar pain in her heart. She knew that feeling better than anyone else — the feeling of holding on to a small, repetitive ritual, not because it changed anything, but because it was the last link connecting her to the person who had passed away.

"What does your husband do?" Thien An asked again, and Khanh Chi realized that the question was not simply a courtesy - there was a special focus in his eyes.

"He worked as a railway worker, repairing the tracks through Vong Pass," Mrs. Dang replied, her voice slow, as if she was turning over pages of old memories. "It's very hard, having to go to the scene on sunny days as well as rainy days. He died from lung disease, due to inhaling stone dust for a long time, not an accident, don't worry."

Thien An nodded, it seemed like that answer made him both relieved and a little regretful - Khanh Chi guessed, perhaps he was hoping to find some connection between Ms. Dang's story and what he was secretly looking for, but this time it wasn't.

"Do you know many people who have worked on this route? People who have worked for many years?" Thien An continued asking, trying to keep her voice natural.

"You know, at that time my whole neighborhood was almost half of the railway. There was the station chief Canh, there was Uncle Lich who drove the train - he died in a landslide some year, it was a pity, he was young and left behind his wife and children. There was also a signal guard, but it's been so long, I don't remember his name clearly, I only remember that he moved away after that, and no one saw him again."

Khanh Chi stood still, her hand holding the ticket suddenly tightened. She glanced at Thien An and saw that he was also bowing his head, avoiding her eyes, his fingers clenched on the edge of the chair until they turned white, as if the name "signal guard" had just uttered a touch on a very painful place inside him, even though Mrs. Dang had not mentioned a specific identity.

"Where is he going, do you know?" Thien An asked, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, trying to keep it natural but unable to hide the tension in each word.

Mrs. Dang shook her head, her voice regretful. "Who knows, my friend. That story was loud for a while and then it died down, people didn't bother to mention it again. Maybe he was embarrassed and didn't dare to stay anymore."

Khanh Chi did not clearly understand what Mrs. Dang meant by "embarrassed about something", but that statement, combined with Thien An's unusual reaction, made a vague but persistent premonition begin to creep into her heart. She had no concrete evidence, no names, no clear facts—only the feeling that the story of the night of the accident had many layers yet to be peeled, and that the young man sitting in front of her was somehow standing very close to one of those layers.

Mrs. Dang paid no further attention, continuing to tell a few other trivial stories about the past, while Khanh Chi quietly left, her heart beating faster than usual, her mind reeling with unanswered questions. She tried to keep a calm face to continue working, but inside, a small storm had begun to form.

Arriving at the fifth station, Ms. Dang got off the train as usual, holding a basket of chrysanthemums and walking in the dark toward the small cemetery at the foot of the pass. Khanh Chi stood at the carriage door, watching her figure disappear, then turned back, his eyes accidentally met Thien An who was sitting quietly, his face in the pale yellow light of the train carriage looked very tired, as if he had just had to endure something very heavy.

She wanted to step back and ask him directly why the story about the old signal guard made him react like that, but then she stopped. Maybe because she was afraid of the answer. Maybe because she remembered his promise the night before, that he would tell everything when he was ready, and she had promised to wait.

The train continued to roll into the night, bringing with it a heavy silence that was different from usual between the two people who had become familiar with each other. Khanh Chi stood at the front of the carriage, looking out into the darkness, wondering if her promise to wait was the right decision, or just her way of delaying having to face a truth that she, deep inside, had begun to sense from the first day he stepped on this train.

Arriving at Van Phong station, when most of the passengers had gotten off, Thien An lingered a bit on the platform, seemingly wanting to say something but stopped. Finally he just asked, his voice regaining its usual calmness: "Miss Chi, do you have a shift tomorrow?"

"Yes, still singing as always," she replied, trying to keep her voice natural even though her heart was still in turmoil.

"Then see you tomorrow." He nodded in greeting and turned away, his back disappearing into the darkness of the familiar road leading to his grandmother's house.

Khanh Chi stood watching, her hand unconsciously touching the old watch on her wrist, like a habit whenever her heart was confused and needed a fulcrum. She thought of her father, of what he had not told her before leaving forever, and wondered if the man who had just disappeared was carrying within him a piece of memory about him - a piece of memory that she herself had never known.

She walked into the station room and sat down at the desk, but instead of opening the duty book as usual, she reached out and opened the bottom drawer, where she kept a small wooden box containing the few remaining mementos of her father - an old uniform hat, a tarnished railway badge, and a leather-bound notebook that she had never had the courage to read. Tonight, for the first time in many years, she felt a strong urge to open that notebook, to search for something, even though she herself didn't know what she was looking for.