Chapter 5 — The Photograph Without a Third Person

Ha returned to Nam's car repair shop three days later, this time with a more reasonable excuse - the left rearview mirror of her car was loose and rattled every time she went over a pothole. She deliberately chose the time in the middle of the afternoon, when the alley was deserted, with only the sound of an old radio playing lyrical music echoing from the small speaker placed on the tool shelf.

"It's you again," Nam said, not raising his head immediately, his hand still tightening a screw on another car. "The car broke down again?"

"The rearview mirror is loose. Maybe it just needs to be tightened." Ha parked the car and waited, deliberately not appearing to be in a hurry. "Your shop is empty, isn't it?"

"I like being away," he replied curtly, but with no intention of dismissing her. He walked over, checked the rearview mirror, and used a wrench to tighten the loose screw in just a few seconds. "Done."

"So fast?" Ha didn't leave right away, instead she looked around the shop, noting the strange tidiness of this small space — every tool arranged in a clear order, each type of screw sorted into separate boxes with handwritten labels. That's not the neatness of an ordinary auto mechanic who learns through word of mouth experience. That is the neatness of a person who has been well-trained to work with high precision.

"You've arranged your equipment so well," she commented, trying to keep her tone as casual as a casual compliment.

Nam paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Just get used to it."

"I'm a photographer," Ha said, purposefully changing the direction of the conversation. "My job also requires precision — a little wrong light, a little off camera angle, and the whole photo will be ruined."

Nam's eyes briefly lingered on her face for a second longer than usual, as if the word "photographer" had just touched a nerve in him. But he quickly regained his familiar calmness. "Good job."

"Do you like taking pictures?"

"No time for those things," he replied, turning his back to continue his unfinished work, but Ha noticed his hand paused for a moment before continuing to tighten the screw on the other car.

Ha did not press further. She understands, from many years of experience observing people through a camera lens, that people with deep wounds often do not open up immediately when asked directly. They need time, a sense of security that is built gradually through each small, pressure-free meeting.

"Can I come back if the car has other problems?" she asked, paying for the mirror repair.

"The shop is open every day except Sunday," he replied, not looking at her, but not refusing either.

***

During the next two weeks, Ha found every reason to stop by Nam's car repair shop - sometimes to check the oil, sometimes to re-inflate the tires, once she even brought a loaf of bread bought from a nearby store, placing it on his desk as a normal gesture between two people who knew each other. Nam never took the initiative to talk much, but also did not seem uncomfortable with her frequent appearances. Gradually, his short answers began to lengthen into several sentences, sometimes accompanied by a counter-question about Ha's work.

"Do you take many wedding photos?" he asked one afternoon, while wiping his hands after repairing an old motorbike.

"Pretty much. It's my studio's main source of income." Ha sat on an old plastic chair next to the shop, watching him work. "There are weddings so beautiful that I forget I'm working and just want to stand and watch the moment pass."

"Do you believe in that kind of wedding? The kind of perfect, flawless happiness?" Nam's voice carries a slight sarcasm, but underneath it is a bitterness that is hard to hide.

"I don't believe in perfection," Ha replied honestly. "But I believe in real moments. Even in an imperfect wedding, there are still genuine moments worth preserving."

Nam was silent for a long time, looking out at the alley where the afternoon sunlight was gradually turning yellow. "Sometimes," he said, his voice slow, as if he were weighing each word, "the things that seem the most real are the most carefully crafted lies."

Those words made Ha's heart tighten. She wanted to ask more, wanted to know what he was talking about, but her instincts told her that if she pressed too hard, the fragile door that had just opened would immediately close.

"You sound like you've been through something," she said softly, trying to keep her voice as gentle as possible.

Nam turned to look at her, his eyes in that moment contained something very complicated - both wary and as if he was considering whether to trust the woman in front of him or not. "Everyone has a story they don't want to tell," he said finally, his voice returning to its familiar closedness. "You too, right?"

Ha nodded, not denying, briefly recounting why she left Lumière Studio — about her refusal to edit a photo hide the truth, and the price she had to pay for that decision. She didn't know why she chose to share this with a stranger she had known for less than two weeks, but there was something about Nam that made her feel safe to tell the truth.

When she finished telling her story, Nam looked at her for a long time, his eyes softened significantly compared to the initial wariness. “So you too had to choose between the truth and your safety,” he said, almost whispering.

"Yes. And I choose the truth, even if it costs me my job."

"Not everyone is brave enough to make that choice." Nam turned away, but Ha noticed the corner of his mouth slightly moving up, an expression almost like respect had just formed. "Thanks for telling me."

On the way home that day, Ha felt a subtle but clear change in the relationship between her and that mysterious man. She knew she wasn't any closer to the concrete truth about his identity or his past, but she was closer to him being willing to trust her—and for someone who had had to live anonymously for four years, that was perhaps a more important step than any concrete clues she could find.

She just didn't expect that, just as that door of trust began to open, another threat was silently forming from the Phan family - people who realized that Ngoc Ha had no intention of letting this matter pass as they wished.

Returning to the studio, Ha recounted the entire conversation to Dieu Thao, not missing any detail, including the sentence that tormented her the most: "what seems most real is the most carefully constructed lie."

"It sounds like he's talking about the wedding itself," Dieu Thao commented, frowning thoughtfully. "Or about his own staged death."

"I think so too." Ha sat down on the chair, rubbing her hands together as if trying to keep warm even though the room was not cold at all. "But I don't want to ask directly right now. I feel like if I force him to tell the truth too soon, before he really trusts me, everything will fall apart."

"So what are you going to do next?"

"I'll keep stopping by, like a normal friend. Don't ask about the past, don't mention the photo. Simply be there, showing him that not everyone wants to take advantage of his story." Ha looked out the window, her voice lowered. "I think, after four years of living alone with that secret, what he needs most is not someone to question him, but someone to listen when he's ready."

Dieu Thao nodded, but still couldn't hide her worry. "You just need to be careful. If the Phan family finds out you're getting close to that 'non-existent man', they won't sit idly by."

That warning made Ha suddenly remember the cold but tired eyes of Mrs. Kim Oanh in their previous meeting - the eyes of someone who was trying to protect a secret so big that she was willing to do everything to keep it buried. She nodded, silently promising herself to be more cautious in her next steps, even though her heart had begun to be drawn deeper into this story than she had ever imagined.

That night, before going to bed, Ha opened the wedding photo again, looking closely at the face of the man standing quietly behind the marble pillar. She realized, after two weeks of meeting, that face was no longer a strange face in a photo. It has become the face of Nam — a man with calloused hands from car repair work, a habit of arranging tools in absolute order, and a rare but warm smile every time he forgets he is on guard.

She turned off the light and lay down on the bed, but sleep did not come immediately. In the darkness, she wondered if she was getting closer to the truth, or was pushing herself into a relationship whose consequences she wasn't brave enough to face yet. Whatever the answer, Ha knew she had no way out. That photo, that man, and the secret waiting to be revealed — all have become an inseparable part of her life, since the moment she saw photo number seventeen for the first time.