Chapter 21 — The Mask Isn't Real

"Miss Uyen Nhi, is this real?" A child's voice rang out clearly in the crowded exhibition space.

The boy, about ten years old, held up a small lion head mask, his eyes bright with curiosity, standing in the middle of a crowd of visitors filling the exhibition space of the Moon Painting workshop on a weekend morning, on the full moon day of the seventh lunar month. There was still more than a month left before the official Mid-Autumn Festival but the atmosphere was already starting to bustle.

"I'll try to find the sign." Uyen Nhi smiled, bent down to the boy's level, and pointed to the mask's mouth. "Shine your flashlight at an angle here, you'll see."

The boy took a small flashlight prepared by the factory for visitors to experience, shined it sideways into his mouth, and exclaimed with excitement when he saw the faint engraving appearing under the diagonal light. "Yes! Yes! It's real, right?"

"That's right, child." Uyen Nhi nodded, feeling a simple joy spread in her heart every time she witnessed a small moment of discovery like this. Moon Painting Studio, since the first exhibition, has become a familiar destination not only for tourists, but also for schools in the area, regularly organizing experiential tours for students on weekends.

The factory's business, although it cannot be called abundant, is much more stable than two years ago when she shouldered everything alone after her teacher passed away. Orders come more regularly, not only from old regulars, but also from new customers who know about the factory through Nhat Vu's article, and through word of mouth about the story behind the "transparent origin record" sign hanging in front of the door.

Tuyen had now rented a small house closer to Yen Lieu village, for convenience in commuting every day, and his son had also changed schools, studying near his new home. His health had improved somewhat thanks to regular medical care from Nha Uyen's fund. Occasionally, on afternoons when he did not have to go to dialysis, Tuyen would take his son to the workshop, letting him sit next to the desk, watching his father and Uyen Nhi painstakingly working with each layer of paper, each brush stroke. There were times when the boy even wanted to try his hand at applying a thin layer of scallop powder, his eyes so focused that he forgot the fatigue that often plagued his skinny body.

Boi Tran also found a new job, at a non-profit heritage conservation center, where she was assigned to be in charge of a project documenting the traditional techniques of many craft villages across the country — a job that, she says, "literally uses these hands to preserve the truth, instead of hiding it."

That afternoon, after the last group of visitors left, Uyen Nhi sat alone in the workshop, reopening the old cardboard box containing her teacher's books - a habit she still kept whenever she needed to regain the feeling of connection with him, even though now she no longer had to search for any clues. She turned to the last pages, where Mr. Tuyen took notes in the last years of his life, the handwriting was much shabbier than the first pages.

A page of paper loosely sandwiched in the middle of the notebook fell out. She bent down to pick it up, realizing that it was not a page from the notebook, but a loose sheet of paper, folded into quarters, the paper had yellowed over time. She opened it, and her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the teacher's familiar handwriting, written longer than usual, like a letter that had never been sent.

She remembered that in the last months of her life, Mr. Tuyen often sat alone at this table for a long time late at night. When she returned to her room to rest, the small oil lamp still flickered until late at night. At that time, she simply thought that he was busy with an urgent batch of goods, not knowing that perhaps, during those nights, he was wrestling with his own conscience, trying to find enough courage to write down the things that had been buried for many years.

"If one day Uyen Nhi found this piece of paper, perhaps I wouldn't have had the courage to say it when I was alive. I'm sorry Tuyen. I believed in my own haste more than I believed in the student who had followed me for six years. I changed the mark not only to avoid being counterfeited, but also as a way to punish myself, so that every time I make a new mark, I will remember the old mistake. If one day you meet Tuyen again, please tell her for me that I am grateful. its craftsmanship, and regret not having had the courage to find it while there was still time."

Uyen Nhi sat quietly, tears falling uncontrollably, reading and re-reading each trembling line of the teacher's words. She didn't know when he wrote this note, she only knew that it had been lying dormant in the notebook for the past two years, waiting for this exact moment to be found - after everything had been resolved, after Tuyen had found her place again in this very workshop.

She folded the paper carefully, stood up, and walked to the back of the factory, where Tuyen was still diligently completing a new batch of goods under the late afternoon light.

"Uncle Tuyen." She called, her voice still choked. "I found this."

Tuyen put down the brush, took the paper from her hand, his eyes followed each line of writing, and Uyen Nhi witnessed his face gradually change - from surprise, to shock, and finally bursting into silent tears that rolled endlessly.

"He..." Tuyen said, her voice broken, her hands trembling tightly holding the paper as if afraid it would disappear, her eyes read each line again and again as if to make sure she wasn't dreaming. "He actually wrote these things."

"I think my teacher always wanted to tell you that, he just never found the courage while he was alive." Uyen Nhi placed her hand on his shoulder, her voice gentle. "I think you can hear me now."

Tuyen sat down on the stool, holding the paper in both hands, crying like a child, the tears of more than twenty years of injustice, hurt, and the burden of guilt he had brought upon himself, were now finally completely released.

Uyen Nhi sat next to him, didn't say anything, just quietly stayed by his side, giving him the space and time he needed for this moment. Outside the factory door, the sunset stained the brick yard, stacks of wooden molds were still neatly arranged on shelves, silently witnessing a late but complete reconciliation between a deceased teacher and a misunderstood student.

A sparrow perched on the corrugated iron roof behind the workshop and sang loudly, breaking the silence for a moment, then flew away again. Uyen Nhi looked up and suddenly thought of how her teacher, if still alive, would have smiled with relief knowing that his last letter had reached the right person at the right time, even though it was many years later than what should have happened.

"Thank you." Tuyen said when she calmed down, her voice was still hoarse with emotion. "Not only for finding this piece of paper, but for everything you did so that I could stand here, strong enough to accept it."

"I just do what I believe is right." Uyen Nhi replied, smiling through the tears still lingering on her eyes. "And I think, this is the right thing to do throughout this whole journey." She looked at the paper in his hand, then back at his face, clearly sensing that this moment was more important than any victory they had achieved before with Ho Bao Ky or with Indochine—this was what truly healed.

They sat together until it was completely dark, not talking much, only occasionally exchanging a few short sentences about tomorrow's work, about the shipment that needed to be completed before the Mid-Autumn Festival officially began. But in that quiet atmosphere, both felt that something had truly closed, a circle had been connected after more than twenty years of rupture.

Before leaving, Tuyen asked for permission to keep the paper, carefully folding it into an old leather wallet he still carried with him. "I want to keep it with me every workday." He explained, his voice still hoarse. "As a reminder that, no matter how heavy the past, there is always a way to move on."

Uyen Nhi saw him off to the factory gate, standing and watching his shadow disappear on the village road under the light of the first moon of the month, still as thin as a drawing. She went back inside, closed the workshop door, but didn't turn off the lights right away, but stood a moment longer in front of Mr. Tuyen's photo, whispering softly: "You've already said it, even though it's late. I think you can feel more secure now."

The light from the table lamp cast her long shadow on the workshop floor, along with the shadows of the rows of wooden molds stacked on shelves, creating a quiet, warm scene - no trace of the tense, anxious nights that had enveloped this place a few months ago.