Chapter 1 — The Lantern That Never Goes Out

The morning dew still lingered on the mossy tiled roof when Pho Uyen Chi opened the wooden door of the Van Nguyet lamp factory. The smell of newly split bamboo, the smell of glue, the smell of silk with a hint of night moisture mixed together into a familiar scent that she had breathed since she was a little girl, crawling around the bundles of bamboo slats lining the walls of the house. The small alley leading to the river wharf was still quiet, with only the sound of rowing water somewhere from a boat carrying vegetables to the market early. Nguyet Giang Ancient Town in the first days of the seventh lunar month always has such a slow look, as if the whole street is taking a deep breath before rushing into the busiest festival season of the year.

Uyen Chi pulled up the bamboo curtain, the first light of day poured into the cramped but tidy workshop. On the wooden shelf along the wall, dozens of bamboo lamp frames of all sizes are arranged in layers, some have been covered with silk just waiting to be painted, some still have frames as thin as fish bones. The wooden table in the middle of the house, the surface shiny from years of rubbing brushes and stained fingertips, is where she sits from morning to night in the months leading up to Mid-Autumn Festival. She put the kettle on the small charcoal stove, then walked to the window looking out at the backyard, where her father, Mr. Pho Van Khoan, was sitting in a familiar rattan chair, his hands on his lap, staring at an unfinished lamp frame.

"Dad, get up so early?" she asked, her voice light as if afraid to break the silence.

Mr. Khoan turned around, his smile showing wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. "I can't sleep. I keep thinking about the lamps for Mr. Tu Le's house. I'm afraid I won't have time." He raised his hands, his fingers trembling slightly, no longer as steady as before. It has been five years since he fell from the silk drying rack upstairs. The injury seemed to be just a bruise but left lasting sequelae on his wrist, making the most delicate lines and the most meticulous drawings now beyond his ability. "Dad's hands are now only suitable for holding a cup of tea, not suitable for holding a brush anymore."

Uyen Chi walked closer, sat down next to him, and gently took the unfinished lamp frame in his hand. It is a hexagonal lamp, the spokes are still rough and have not been polished. "Dad, let me do it. I just need to sit here and see if I do it right."

"You did everything right," Mr. Khoan said, his voice low. "You're even more beautiful than I was when I was young. It's just a pity..." He stopped, his eyes glanced at the black and white photo hanging on the wall, capturing a woman standing next to a nine-tiered lotus-petaled Cuu Lien lamp frame, smiling radiantly in the sunlight. "It's just a shame that she's no longer here to see how good you've become."

Uyen Chi did not answer, just nodded slightly, her eyes also stopped at the photo. Her grandmother, Pho Tuyet Nga, passed away when she was only seven years old, but in her young memory, the image of a woman with her hair tied in a bun was still intact, her hands quickly bending each bamboo slat into soft curves as if bamboo was not hard wood but a strip of silk. People call her the "artist of moonlight" because the lamps she makes, when lit at night, the light shines through the thin layer of silk, creating a gentle golden light like the full moon swooping down on the river surface. The Cuu Lien lamp - nine layers of interlocking lotus petals, each with a pink hue gradually rising to the top - is the final masterpiece and also the greatest pride of the entire Van Nguyet workshop, passed down through stories told by old people in the street.

The wind chimes in front of the workshop door rang softly when someone entered. Uyen Chi looked up and saw Thi Bao Chau, her best friend since elementary school, carrying a bag of hot cakes in her hand, walking briskly across the threshold.

"Are you still sitting there? At the market this morning, people were talking loudly about something related to this year's festival, but I vaguely heard the beginning and end of it," Bao Chau said, placing the bag of cakes on the table, pulling a chair to sit next to him. She is the owner of a small lotus tea shop right next to the ferry wharf, where all the earliest news of the old town gathers, from who is getting married to whether there will be a storm this year or not.

"What are you talking about so much?" Uyen Chi asked, her hands continued to smooth the edges of the bamboo slats.

"I'm not too sure. It seems like there is a big company outside the city that is aiming for a contract to supply lights for this year's Mid-Autumn Festival. I heard the price is one-third as cheap as the silk lights we make, and they come in all colors and styles, including battery-powered lights, no need to light candles." Bao Chau shrugged, his voice somewhat skeptical. "It's probably just a rumor. If the Old Quarter Management Board abandons silk lamps to switch to plastic lamps, there will be nothing left of Nguyet Giang's soul."

Mr. Khoan was silent, but Uyen Chi noticed his father's hand gently clasped on the arm of the rattan chair. She brushed away the fleeting feeling of insecurity, telling herself that perhaps Bao Chau was right, it was just an idle rumor in the middle of the bustling market season. For many years now, every time the Mid-Autumn Festival approaches, the old town has been filled with all kinds of news, from rising silk prices to erratic weather, but in the end everything has returned to normal, lanterns are still hung all over the street, warm light still covers the ancient tiled roofs every full moon night.

The morning passed with daily work. Uyen Chi completed the hexagonal lamp frame and moved on to the stage of stretching silk for a batch of small round lamps ordered from a family in the street to decorate their porch. Stretching silk is a step that requires absolute concentration - the delicate silk sheet must be stretched evenly on the frame, not allowed to slack nor pulled too hard, causing the silk to tear or distort the frame. Her grandmother once taught her that if you want beautiful silk, your hand must be able to "talk" to the silk, you must feel the appropriate tension through your fingertips, not measure it with your eyes. Uyen Chi dipped a thin piece of cloth into a basin of diluted glue, swept it evenly over the edge of the frame, then slowly pulled the ivory-white silk covering it, her hands moving rhythmically from the center outwards as if caressing a living creature.

At noon, when the sunlight was high in the sky, shining through the bamboo curtains, creating long streaks of light on the tile floor, there was a loud knock on the door. A middle-aged man, wearing a business shirt, holding a briefcase, entered the workshop in a hurry. That is Mr. Doi Quang Minh, Head of the Old Quarter Management Board, who everyone in the street is familiar with because he regularly inspects businesses in the heritage area.

"Hello Ms. Uyen Chi, hello Mr. Khoan," Mr. Minh said, his voice unusually reserved compared to his usual vivacity. "I stopped by to announce in advance. This afternoon the Management Board is holding a short meeting with traditional craft households in the city. We invite you to attend."

"What's the meeting about?" Uyen Chi asked, placing the half-stretched lamp frame on the table.

Mr. Minh hesitated slightly, his eyes avoiding Mr. Khoan's gaze. "About the preparations for this year's festival. There... there are some new plans that need to get people's opinions." After he finished speaking, without further explanation, he quickly left to continue informing other households in the street, leaving behind an uncomfortable atmosphere of uncertainty.

Uyen Chi looked at Mr. Minh's shadow disappearing behind the corner of the alley, and a bad premonition arose in her heart. She turned to look at her father and saw him still sitting still, his eyes looking distantly out into the sunny yard, as if he were hearing a very soft sound from the past that only he could understand the meaning of.

"Dad, did you hear anything first?" she asked.

Mr. Khoan shook his head, but his eyes still did not leave the space in front of him. "Dad didn't hear anything. But the way Mr. Minh talks vaguely like that, I guess it's not a small thing."

That afternoon, Uyen Chi and her father went to the small hall of the Old Quarter Management Board, where nearly twenty households engaged in other traditional occupations had gathered - from families making lanterns like the Van Nguyet workshop, to households making pottery, weaving mats, and weaving rattan and bamboo in the old quarter. The atmosphere in the room was thick with curiosity and worry. Uyen Chi found a seat next to Bao Chau, who was also invited as a representative of riverside service businesses.

On the podium, Mr. Dai Quang Minh stood next to a projection screen, flipping through a few pages of documents, his face showing the tension of someone about to say something unpleasant. Uyen Chi held her father's hand tightly, feeling his breathing suddenly become faster. Outside, the afternoon sunlight began to turn yellow on the surface of the Nguyet Giang River, dyeing the ancient roof tiles a warm orange color - a familiar peaceful beauty that no one in this room knew that, in just a few minutes, it could be threatened by a decision coming from outside this small street.

Uyen Chi took a deep breath, feeling like she was standing in front of an unfinished lamp frame, not knowing which direction the next bamboo slats would bend. But there is one thing she is sure of: no matter what is about to be announced, she will not let the fire that her grandmother lit in the Van Nguyet workshop die out so easily. She glanced at her father and saw him nodding slightly, as if reading her thoughts, as if both father and daughter were mentally preparing for a battle that they did not yet know the shape of.