Chapter 13 — Unnamed Perfume Shop

Belle Époque opened on a bright Saturday morning, with speakers blasting electronic music across the street, a red ribbon tied across the window, and dozens of silver-white balloons floating above the shiny tempered glass awning. Bao Nghi stood behind the counter of her shop, looking through the window at the beginning of the street, where the crowd was gathering, taking photos, lining up to receive free trial gifts, and felt a distinct insecurity rising in her heart, even though she had prepared herself many weeks ago.

The new store is designed in a modern European style, with faux marble walls, transparent glass display shelves illuminated with LED lights from below, and staff wearing neat black and white uniforms standing in a line to greet customers right at the door. Compared to her small, old shop — where the light comes only from warm yellow bulbs and wooden windows, where the scent emanates naturally from the house's own air and not from an industrial aroma diffuser — the contrast is so stark it's almost cruel.

All that morning, her shop didn't have a single customer come in, something that rarely happened even on the worst rainy days. At noon, Uncle Bat stopped by as usual, but this time he didn't stop to inhale the smell of old milk flowers like usual, he just looked towards the noisy crowd at the end of the street, shaking his head. "This street used to be so quiet," he said, his voice somewhat regretful, "now it's as noisy as a market. Miss Nghi, be careful, that chain must be advertising heavily. I've heard my grandchildren talking to each other all week."

Bao Nghi just smiled awkwardly, not wanting to reveal all her worries in front of a regular customer who had been with the store for nearly ten years. But when Mr. Bat left, she couldn't help but slump down on the chair behind the counter, looking around the deserted shop, feeling like she was witnessing her own future being abandoned right before her eyes.

In the afternoon, Nha Truc ran over, her hands still covered in dirt from unfinished flower arrangements, her face equally worried. "My flower shop is completely empty today," she said, plopping down on the chair opposite Bao Nghi. "It's probably because the whole street flocked to the pool to watch the opening. Don't worry too much, it's probably just the first few days, it's new so people are curious."

"I hope so," Bao Nghi replied, her voice not very confident. She looked out the window, where the afternoon sunlight was beginning to turn yellow, reflecting sparklingly on the tempered glass of the Belle Époque, and couldn't help but realize a harsh truth: what her salon could offer — slowness, listening, a scent tailored to each story — were things that couldn't be heavily advertised, couldn't be packaged eye-catchingly in a grand opening morning. It takes time, it takes trust built over many years, which in a world that moves faster and faster, it seems fewer and fewer people have the patience to wait.

Just when she was about to close early because of the slump, Mr. Chung Vinh Vuong suddenly stopped by, not to order anything new, but just to bring her a bag of oranges sent from his daughter's garden. "I stopped by and saw your store was empty," he said, placing the bag of oranges on the counter, his voice somewhat apologetic for her. "I told my old friends in the retirement community, if you need to buy perfume, just come here. Don't be so greedy for the new that you forget the old. I still spray the bottle of perfume you made for me a while ago, every night, it smells just like sitting next to my grandmother."

Bao Nghi was so moved that she was speechless and held his hand tightly to thank him. It was a small gesture, almost nothing compared to the wave of advertising from Belle Époque, but it reminded her of why she persisted in this job — not to compete for the number of customers, but to retain something that couldn't be measured in revenue. After Mr. Vinh Vuong left, she sat quietly for a while, caressing the bag of oranges that still had the cold air of early morning, then continued the unfinished cleaning job.

A few days later, when Bao Nghi was cleaning up the shelves, a young woman, elegantly dressed in a modern office style, entered the store, completely different from the usual regular customers. The woman has a sharp face, sharp eyes, and a professional, social smile that is often seen in people working in the high-end service industry. "Hello, I'm Au Kim Phuong, regional director of Belle Époque," she introduced herself, holding out a business card with gilded lettering. "I stopped by to get acquainted with the neighboring stores, hoping we can be good neighbors."

Bao Nghi invited her to sit down, made a cup of tea, trying to maintain a polite attitude even though she inevitably felt wary. “Thank you for stopping by,” she said. "The store that opened today must be very crowded."

"Pretty good," Au Kim Phuong replied, smiling, looking around the shop with obvious professional curiosity, stopping for a long time at the row of shelves with unlabeled glass jars. "I heard that your shop has a pretty special service, mixing perfume according to customers' memories? Sounds very interesting, unlike any business model I've ever come across."

"That's not really a business model," Bao Nghi replied, her voice cautious. "That's how my family has been doing business for three generations."

Au Kim Phuong nodded, her eyes slightly thoughtful. "I understand. To be honest, I quite admire traditional crafts like this, even though my work goes in a completely different direction — scale, speed, ability to reach the masses. I don't deny that our presence can affect the number of visitors to small shops like yours, and I sincerely apologize if that causes difficulties. But the market operates according to its own rules, Ms. Nghi, I'm just doing my job. me."

There is a cold straightforwardness in Au Kim Phuong's words, but it is not provocative or belittling - it is the tone of someone who clearly understands where he stands in the game, and has no intention of pretending otherwise. Bao Nghi felt both uncomfortable and, strangely, somewhat respectful of that honesty. "I don't blame you for the work you're doing," Bao Nghi replied, her voice calm. "But I won't easily give up what my family has built over the past fifty years."

Au Kim Phuong looked at her for a moment, then smiled slightly, a smile this time that seemed more genuine than the original social smile. “I like the way you answered,” she said. "I wish you luck, Ms. Nghi. Honestly, I hope your shop stays afloat, even though that sounds contradictory to my job." She stood up, bowed, and left, leaving Bao Nghi sitting alone with a gilded business card in her hand, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts about the woman who had just stopped by — not necessarily an enemy she could easily hate, but a representative of a world that was changing too quickly, where slow, meticulous values like her shop were increasingly difficult to find a place for.

That evening, when recounting the meeting to Bach Nguyen, he pondered for a long time. "She's not wrong," he commented. "The market does work that way. But that doesn't mean the values she holds are no longer important. Perhaps, instead of trying to compete directly with a large chain store, I should find a way to let people see more clearly the unique value that only her store can bring - something that no amount of advertising dollars can recreate."

"What do you think we should do first?" Bao Nghi asked, her voice less confused, replaced by a realistic focus.

"First of all, we should tell the shop's story to more people," Bach Nguyen replied, "not through loud advertising, but through what you do - Mr. Vinh Vuong's story, mine, and the stories of so many other families who have left memories here. I heard that the town is preparing to organize a festival honoring traditional crafts at the end of the year, gathering artisans in the area. If your shop can participate, it will be an opportunity for many people to know about it." to the true value of this place, not just a perfume shop."

Bao Nghi sat up straight, a new ray of hope flashing in her eyes. "Where and when is that festival held?"

"I'll find out more and let you know later," he replied, smiling at the obvious change in her attitude, from boredom to determination in just a few minutes of conversation. "But I think this might be a good opportunity for you to both introduce the shop and have more time and support from the community before having to make a final decision with my uncle."

Bao Nghi nodded, looking out the window where the sparkling LED lights from Belle Époque still illuminated the entire street corner even though it was late. She thought of the photo of her youthful, radiant grandmother that Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen had just given her, of the unfinished dream of the two words Hoai Huong written on the empty wooden sign above the door, and told herself, no matter how difficult the road ahead is, she will not let it be swept away just because it is not fast enough, not noisy enough as the modern competitors that are springing up everywhere.