Chapter 2 — The Three-Person Trip

Phu Khiem Hanh lowered his gaze, the brush moving with tender grace across the paper, leaving behind clearly inscribed characters: May Hoa Y find peace and smooth sailing, untouched by any worries. There was not a single word dedicated to me. Not a fraction of a sentence expressed any anticipation for our three years of shared history. Catching my gaze, he laid the brush aside and offered an explanation:

She has been frail and sickly since childhood, and everyone in her family holds her close to their hearts. It is only natural for me to add a couple of extra blessings.

Later on, I will simply go and fetch two new prayer plaques, and write one exclusively for the two of us.

Yet, once the words left his lips, he made no move whatsoever to retrieve any wooden tablets. The moment Lin Hoa Y finished her inscription, she directly tugged him toward the towering branches adorned with a canopy of hanging plaques. Standing side by side, they stretched upward on their tiptoes, firmly tying their wooden talismans to the highest and most prominent bough, mirroring a pair of lovers deeply entwined for years. As we turned to leave, my voice carried distinctly to his ears:

You told me that coming here would mean walking by my side alone to offer our wishes, praying that we would forever remain together. Have you fulfilled that promise now?

Phu Khiem Hanh’s brow instantly knitted together in a tight frown, his tone laced with reprimand:

Hua Huu An, can you please grow up a little bit?

It is merely a wooden prayer plaque; is it really worth clinging to such a trivial matter and refusing to let go? You must know that my heart belongs to you.

The wooden boardwalk flanking the lakeside cliff was perpetually damp and slick with emerald moss. Hearing his words, my mind drifted, and my footing suddenly gave way. My entire body pitched violently to the side. Phu Khiem Hanh’s very first instinct was to pull Lin Hoa Y closer into his embrace, wrapping his arms securely around her. Only after assuring himself that she was in no danger did he bother to cast a glance in my direction, dropping a single, indifferent inquiry: Are you alright? I withdrew my gaze from his figure, turning my head toward the nearby observation deck—the exact spot where we had once stood together to capture memories in photographs.

Just last year, standing right here, it was only the two of us.

Phu Khiem Hanh gave the spot a fleeting, dismissive glance, his attention instantly snapping back to Lin Hoa Y beside him, who was shivering slightly and pulling her collar tight against the breeze. He tossed out a careless reply: Why bring up things that are already in the past? Passersby wandering along the path noticed the stiff, awkward tension hanging between the three of us and began to murmur among themselves, their scattered whispers drifting into our space. Lin Hoa Y’s eyes instantly flushed red, adopting the pitiful posture of someone deeply wronged yet too afraid to voice her pain. Seeing this, Phu Khiem Hanh immediately raised a hand to gently stroke her back, offering low, soothing murmurs of comfort. Once she was placated, he strode over to where I stood, his voice brimming with raw impatience and bitter disappointment:

Must you insist on making a scene in front of strangers, leaving everyone in such an uncomfortable position?

An An, whatever happened to your capacity for grace and tolerance?

Listening to him, I could only feel a cold, hollow amusement. On the descent down the mountain, I deliberately lagged behind, widening the distance between myself and the two of them. Pulling out my mobile phone, I opened the ticketing application and booked the earliest flight departing for Van Thanh tomorrow morning.

Night draped over the coast, and the sea breeze slipped through the window frames, chilling me to the marrow. I huddled beneath the blankets, enduring the cold until five in the morning, when the sky finally bled into a pale, ash-gray hue. Devoid of sleep, I rose decisively and set about packing my belongings. I had only zipped the suitcase halfway when a soft, delicate murmur drifted from the bedroom. Within the span of a single breath, Phu Khiem Hanh—who had been resting restlessly on the sofa—snapped awake. Without even pausing to slip on his shoes, his bare feet padded across the freezing wooden floorboards as he sprinted into the bedroom. My hands froze over the luggage zipper. Standing in the dim shadows of the entryway, I had an unobstructed view of the scene unfolding before me. Lin Hoa Y was curled beneath the covers, one bare shoulder exposed to the chill. Phu Khiem Hanh bent down, his fingertips delicately gathering the edge of the blanket, meticulously tucking it in around her shoulders. He spoke in a voice so tender and subdued it seemed crafted to avoid disturbing a sleeping deity: Did the coastal wind get to you during the night? Did you catch a chill? Without pausing, he reached for the thick woolen quilt folded neatly at the head of the bed, wrapping it layer by layer around Lin Hoa Y to shield her from even the slightest breath of cold air. From beginning to end, he did not spare a single glance for the figure standing beyond the doorway. Lin Hoa Y murmured sleepily, complaining of thirst. Phu Khiem Hanh instantly offered soothing words, spinning around to stride briskly toward the kitchen. He carefully brewed a warm cup of honey water and carried it back to the bedside. Lowering his head, he blew gently across the rim to cool the liquid before carefully pressing the cup into Lin Hoa Y’s hands, whispering instructions for her to sip slowly so as not to scald her tongue. I had told him countless times about my chronic stomach sensitivity to the cold. Yet just two nights prior, when I woke shivering and asked for a cup of warm water, he had given a vague, perfunctory nod only to toss the matter completely from his mind. Yet he could meticulously remember Lin Hoa Y’s preference for warm honey water and willingly rise from his bed to tend to her every need, while utterly failing to recall the simple comfort I had asked for the night before. I pulled my gaze away and lifted the suitcase. The wheels rolled across the wooden floor, emitting a crisp, steady rhythm. Hearing the sound, Phu Khiem Hanh turned his head casually, casting a fleeting, indifferent look in my direction that lingered for less than half a second, evidently assuming I was merely rising early to catch the morning air on the balcony. He lowered his gaze once more, resuming the careful task of peeling a fresh mango on the table and placing every slice into Lin Hoa Y’s waiting palm. I did not linger a moment longer, quietly slipping out through the front door of the guesthouse. The morning sea wind howled fiercely, tangling my hair. Standing at the transfer bus stop, I unlocked my phone and braced myself for the journey ahead.