Chapter 3 — Three Years Waiting for a Call

Tri Nghien's hand holding the phone tightened little by little. At this time, Lam Van Dao's message appeared. "Are you home yet?" "Is An Ninh okay?" Tri Nghien stared at the text, but suddenly did not reply. He turned and rushed into the bedroom. In the wardrobe, half of the clothes I usually wear are missing. On the nightstand, the medicine I often use disappeared. In the office, those rehabilitation items were all thrown into trash bags. Pronunciation cards fall scattered at the top. On the first sheet was still written in my shaky handwriting. "Tri Nghien, try your best today." Tri Nghien's fingertips suddenly trembled. He squatted down and picked up the card. On the back of the card is a very ugly little rabbit, which I drew before I was afraid he would get bored practicing pronunciation. Next to it was written: "Once you know how to speak, the first sentence must be your name." Tri Nghien looked at that line, her throat suddenly felt like something was choking her. He finally opened his mouth. The voice was low and trembling. “An Ninh.” The house was empty. No one had red eyes and rushed to hug him anymore. No one was so happy that they flustered their hands and feet, smiling and saying: "Tri Nghien, I know how to talk." "I finally know how to call your name." He remembered the text message I sent last night. Suddenly he stood up and rushed out the door to the building management office, his voice hoarse and unusual. "Did anything happen on the sixteenth floor last night?" The management staff was stunned. "Mr. Tri, what can you say?" Tri Nghien's face turned pale. "I ask you, did someone pry open my door last night?" The management staff quickly opened the surveillance camera. In the picture, three men stand outside the door, trying the password over and over again. Tri Nghien seemed to be able to see how scared I was at that time. I had just been discharged from the hospital, my throat was so injured that I couldn't even make a sound. I could only huddle in the bedroom, listening to the door outside being pried open little by little. At that time, he was sending the recording to Lam Van Dao. He said. “This kind of lie can also be told.” In the surveillance camera, after the police arrived, I was helped out. His face was as white as paper. My whole body trembled to the point of being unable to stand. The police asked where my family was. I shook my head and said I had no family. Tri Nghien staggered a bit, resting her hands on the corner of the table before barely standing. The manager carefully opened his mouth: "Mr. Tri, then your wife took her luggage and left." "It seems like she was going to the airport." Airport. When these two words fell, a loud noise rang out in Tri Nghien's head. He rushed out of the management office and frantically called me. The phone still cannot make calls. He sent me the recording again. One paragraph after another. "Tieu Ninh, where are you?" "I know it's wrong." "I know it." "Don't you always want to hear me call your name?" "An Ninh." "An Ninh, can you hear it?" His voice became more and more shaky. But after those recordings were sent, only cold red exclamation marks remained. Tri Nghien stiffened in place. The phone slipped from my palm and fell to the ground. The screen is still bright. The above stopped at the last sentence I sent him: "Please." Tri Nghien finally understood belatedly. That's not exploration. That was the last time I asked him for help. It was also the last time I was willing to put my hope in him. 6 When Tri Nghien returned home, the sky was already bright. My slippers are still placed in the mysterious entrance. The tip of the sandal is facing inward, as if I'm just going out for a short time and will return soon. But the house was eerily quiet. It was so quiet that for the first time, Tri Nghien felt that the silence would be deafening. He stood in the middle of the living room, suddenly remembering every morning

formerly. I always fried eggs and stuck my head out of the kitchen. "Tri Nghien, it's cold outside today." "The yellow cat downstairs is squatting next to the flower bed again." "I just checked the weather forecast, it might rain in the afternoon." At that time, he always felt bothered. I feel like these words are too trivial, too light, too meaningless. But now, the kitchen is empty. No one had two sets of bowls and chopsticks on the dining table. He finally discovered that those small things that he once hated as noise actually supported the entire bustle of this house. Tri Nghien walked step by step into the kitchen. On the refrigerator, stick a few sticky notes. These are my words. "The medicine is in the second compartment, one pill each morning and evening." "If you have a bad stomach, don't drink coffee on an empty stomach." "The wontons need to be a little spicy, I've been coughing lately." Each sheet was very old, the edges of the paper were curled up. Tri Nghien raised his hand to peel off a note, his fingertips shaking violently. He suddenly remembered last night. I texted him begging: “Can you send me a recording?” “Just say you're at home.” “Please.” That was the first time in a long time I begged him. But what did he do? He sent a few short videos. He took my fear as a probe.