Chapter 9 — The End-of-Day Train

After that rainy night, Khanh Chi and Thien An seemed to cross some invisible threshold in their relationship. Their conversations no longer stop at a polite social level, but gradually become more natural and open, although the biggest secret still hangs unresolved.

One weekend night, when the train was less crowded than usual because of the monsoon, Thien An sat next to Khanh Chi in the front row of the carriage while she took a break between two stations.

"Miss Chi, I want to tell you part of the reason why I take this train so often," he started, his voice somewhat serious, different from usual.

Khanh Chi sat up straight, listening attentively, his heart beating faster because of the hunch that this might be the moment he began to reveal something important.

"My grandmother lives alone in Van Phong. She is eighty-two years old this year, and her health has gradually deteriorated in recent years. My father passed away when I was young, and my mother later moved to the South to live with a new family, so I grew up mainly with her. Later, I went to Thanh Chau to study at university and then stayed to work, but I still try to visit her once or twice a week, because she has no one else close to her except me." He stopped, his eyes looking far away out the dark window.

"So that's the main reason why you took this train?" Khanh Chi asked gently, even though she knew this was not the whole truth.

"Only part of it," Thien An admitted, her voice low. "I'm not ready to tell the rest yet, Miss Chi. But I want you to know, my grandmother is real, and the feelings I have for her are also real. Not everything I tell you is to hide something."

Khanh Chi nodded, touched by that unfinished honesty. "I trust you. What's your grandmother's name? Maybe I know her."

"Her name is Quach Thi Tam, she lives in a small alley near the old market, next to the Doan family church."

"Ah, I know that old lady!" Khanh Chi exclaimed softly, surprised and delighted. "You often sit on the front porch selling betel and areca leaves, right? When I was little, I often passed by there to buy candy next door."

Thien An smiled, her eyes lit up because of that unexpected coincidence. "That's right, that lady. She still sells betel and areca nut, although now she only sells it for fun. Few people eat betel anymore."

"That old lady must have loved you very much," Khanh Chi said, smiling, recalling the image of the old lady sitting on the porch selling betel and areca nuts. Her figure was small but her eyes were always bright and clear when talking to passersby.

"She was the one who raised me when my parents were no longer around," Thien An said, her voice low and full of gratitude. "She taught me how to read before I even entered first grade, taught me how to sweep the yard clean, and how to wrap banh chung for Tet. Every time I came home, she always saved some of my favorite dishes, whether I told her in advance or not. Old people live alone, so she must have expected me to come home."

"So why don't you move here to live with your grandmother for convenience? Going back and forth from Thanh Chau to Van Phong all the time must be hard."

Thien An was silent for a moment, his eyes slightly hesitant. "I'm also thinking about that. The job in Thanh Chau no longer binds me as much as before, and maybe... maybe I'm also looking for a big enough reason to stay here longer."

Those words made Khanh Chi blush slightly, not daring to ask further what he was implying, just quietly bowing her head to hide the smile that flashed across her lips.

The light conversation gradually returned, the atmosphere was less tense than at the beginning. Arriving at Van Phong station, when most of the passengers had gotten off, Khanh Chi suddenly came up with an idea.

"Do you have time? I want to show you a place."

Thien An nodded and curiously followed her. Khanh Chi led him around the back of the main station, to a small room hidden in the corner, the old wooden door with a rusty lock. She took the set of keys she always carried with her, opened the door, and turned on the light switch.

The room appeared in the pale yellow light of a single light bulb - a small space, about fifteen square meters, the walls were filled with black and white photo frames that had yellowed over time, recording the images of generations of railway employees who worked on the Thanh Chau - Van Phong line. A corner of the room displays a few old artifacts: a tarnished bronze signal light, a handwritten train time book from the years when the lunar calendar was still used to calculate days, and a train driver's uniform hat hanging solemnly on a wooden hook.

"This is a small traditional room at the station. Mr. Canh and a few old people established it a long time ago. Now only I and a few people still have the key," Khanh Chi explained, her voice low, full of pride and nostalgia. "I often come here every time I need a quiet place to think."

Thien An walked slowly along the walls, eyes glued to each photo frame, as if searching for a specific face. Khanh Chi stood quietly and observed, seeing his hands tremble slightly as he stopped in front of a group photo of station staff on a certain holiday, young faces lined up smiling in front of the old train engine.

"This is..." he asked softly, pointing to a man standing in the back row, tall and thin, wearing a crooked hat.

Khanh Chi came closer and looked in the direction his hand was pointing, her heart pounding. "That's my dad. Tong Van Lich."

Thien An didn't say anything, just stood silently looking at the photo for a long time, to the point where Khanh Chi began to feel something unusual in that prolonged silence. She was about to ask a question when he suddenly turned away, his voice choked.

"Sorry, I... I need to go out and get some air."

He quickly walked out of the room, leaving Khanh Chi standing there, confused and worried. She looked at her father's photo again, then scanned the other faces in that group photo, trying to find what made Thien An react so violently. But she didn't recognize any other familiar faces, other than her father and a much younger Mr. Canh standing in the front row.

She stood silently in the middle of the small room for a long time, her eyes glancing over every old photo frame, every artifact that had faded over the years. The bronze signal light in the corner of the room, she remembered, was the type of light her father had told her that the guard had to carry and walk along the tracks every rainy night to check the signals by hand, before there was an automatic electrical system like now. She reached out and gently touched the opaque glass of the lamp, wondering what lamp had been used on that fateful night twelve years ago, and what the person holding it had seen before the mountain collapsed onto the tracks.

She turned off the lights, locked the traditional room door, then walked out to find Thien An. He was leaning against the train platform railing, looking out into the darkness, his shoulders shaking slightly as if he was trying to suppress some intense emotion.

"Are you okay?" Khanh Chi asked, her voice filled with worry, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

Thien An turned to look at her, his eyes red in the dim light of the station platform. "I'm sorry, Miss Chi. Maybe... maybe it's time for me to tell you everything. But not tonight. I need more time to mentally prepare, and I also need to find out a few more things before telling you, to make sure I don't hurt you further because of what I haven't clearly confirmed."

Khanh Chi looked at him, clearly seeing the struggle in those eyes, and even though hundreds of questions were rising in her heart that needed immediate answers, she still chose to nod and be patient once again.

"Okay. I'll wait. But remember, whatever the truth is, I want to hear it from you, not from anyone else."

"I promise," Thien An replied, her voice hoarse, and in the pale darkness of the train platform that night, the two of them stood next to each other for a long time, no one said another word, only the sound of the wind blowing through the trees beside the tracks and the chirping of insects echoing from the distant fields, like a quiet background music for the unsteady moment between belief and unspoken truth.

Before parting, Thien An suddenly gently held Khanh Chi's hand, just for a short moment, enough for her to feel the warmth from his hand, then he let go immediately, somewhat embarrassed by his own unexpected action. “Thank you, for believing in me,” he said, his voice soft. "I don't know if I'm worthy of that trust, but I will try my best not to disappoint you."

Khanh Chi looked at him, the station lights illuminated his face with flickering streaks of light and dark, and she realized that, even though her heart was still full of questions, she no longer wanted to turn around and walk away. "You should go visit your grandmother, it's late. I'll wait for you on the train tomorrow as always."

"See you tomorrow," he replied, nodded slightly, then turned and walked away, his back disappearing into the dark alley, leaving Khanh Chi standing alone on the deserted train platform, her heart mixed between hope and anxiety, but most of all, a new warm feeling that she had never allowed herself to fully feel since the day her father passed away.