Chapter 19 — Unnamed Perfume Shop

Ten days before the festival, Bao Nghi began distilling the largest batch of cork flower essential oil ever, enough to not only perfect the Hoai Huong formula but also display it, allowing visitors at the festival to try a small version. She and Bach Nguyen returned to the old Van Dien village two more times, carefully collected the right amount of flowers without damaging the trees, and brought them back to soak according to the seven-day process in the dark that Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen had passed down.

Saturday night, the day the batch of essential oil was completed, Bao Nghi carefully filtered the precious essence into a large glass jar, placing it on the highest shelf in the mixing workshop - the place she believed was the safest, away from all vibrations and all light that could damage the quality of the essential oil. She planned to start mixing the first complete batch of Hoai Huong the next morning, and her heart was filled with an indescribable excitement and nervousness.

But in the middle of that night, a loud noise from upstairs made her jump out of bed. She rushed up and saw her mother standing in the middle of the room, her hands shaking, her eyes wide open in panic, no longer recognizing her own familiar room. "Who... who is this, why is there someone in my house?" Mrs. Bich Van stammered, her voice trembling with fear, retreating to the corner of the wall, her hands frantically searching for something to defend herself.

"Mom, it's me, it's Nghi," Bao Nghi quickly reassured, approaching slowly, trying not to frighten her mother further, but Mrs. Bich Van, in the delirium of a twilight disorder - a phenomenon that doctors had warned could occur in people with dementia, when confusion and agitation become more severe at night - did not recognize her daughter, screamed in panic, pushed Bao Nghi away, then rushed out of the room, running down the stairs in the dark. dark.

"Mom, stop, it's dangerous!" Bao Nghi shouted and quickly chased after him, her heart pounding with fear. Ms. Bich Van, in a panic, ran straight into the rear mixing workshop, bumping into the high shelf where Bao Nghi had just placed a bottle of precious cork flower essential oil. The crashing sound echoed in the quiet night, and in the dim light from the hallway light, Bao Nghi saw a puddle of liquid spreading out on the tile floor, the gentle, precious scent of cork flowers - the result of seven days of incubation, of two long trips, of countless efforts - was gradually seeping into the old tile joints, irretrievable.

Bao Nghi stood still in that moment, a part of her wanted to cry out of regret, but the bigger part, the worry for her mother overwhelmed everything. She rushed to hug her mother who was trembling and crying in the corner of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened. "It's okay, Mom, it's okay, I'm here," she whispered, hugging her mother tightly, tears rolling down her cheeks but her voice still trying to be gentle and steady to reassure her mother.

It took nearly half an hour, with the help of Aunt Xuyen who was quickly called up, to calm Ms. Bich Van down and put her to bed to rest. When everything was calm, Bao Nghi returned to the mixing workshop, stood looking at the partially dried puddle of essential oil on the floor, broken pieces of glass scattered everywhere, and the feeling of exhaustion and despair came like a big wave that was finally allowed to flow out after so many efforts to suppress it.

She sat down right on the floor, among the broken pieces, sobbing like she had never cried in the past two years since her mother fell ill. Not only was it regret for the lost essential oil batch, but also all the burdens that had been pent up for so long - the fear of losing my mother, the fear of losing my shop, the pressure from the approaching festival, all bursting at the same time in that dark night.

Aunt Xuyen, after reassuring Mrs. Bich Van to sleep again, went down to find Bao Nghi in that state, quickly sat down and hugged her, not saying anything, just letting her cry until she was satisfied. "Miss Nghi, cry, cry to the end," she said softly, her voice full of sympathy. "You've endured too much these past two years. No one blames you for being weak for once."

The next morning, when Bach Nguyen arrived and saw that the shop still had the scent of last night's events - Bao Nghi with red, swollen eyes sat quietly cleaning up the last fragments - he quickly ran over and hugged her. "What happened?" he asked, his voice extremely worried.

Bao Nghi recounted the entire incident, her voice broken because she was still in shock. Bach Nguyen listened silently, held her tightly in his arms, said nothing for a long time, just letting her feel his steady presence. "We'll go get the flowers again," he said at last, his voice steady. "Ten days left, there's still time if we start today."

"But there's still a batch left to ferment for seven days," Bao Nghi replied, her voice still shaking, "if you include the test preparation time after that, I only have enough time left, there's no room for error anymore."

"Then I won't let the mistake happen again," he said, holding her hand tightly. "I will stay and help you watch over the ingredients, day and night if needed. You don't have to shoulder this alone anymore, Bao Nghi."

That afternoon, Bao Nghi took her mother to see the neurologist who had been monitoring her condition for the past two years. After examining and listening to Bao Nghi recount the details of last night's twilight disorder, the doctor pondered for a moment and then explained, his voice careful but straightforward. "Such nocturnal agitation tends to appear more frequently as the disease progresses to the next stage," he said. "I don't want to scare you, but you should be mentally prepared. You may need to consider adding someone to help care for you at night, or consider more specialized care options in the near future."

Bao Nghi nodded, trying to stay calm in front of the doctor, but when she walked out of the clinic, she had to lean against the hallway wall for a while to calm down, feeling like the whole world was pressing on her from all sides at once. Bach Nguyen, who had taken half a day off from work to take the mother and child to the doctor, was waiting outside. Immediately recognized her blank expression, he quickly stepped forward to help her.

"What did the doctor say?" he asked softly.

Bao Nghi recounted, her voice choked. "I'm scared, Mr. Nguyen," she confessed, revealing her deepest fear for the first time. "I'm afraid that one day, I will lose you completely before I can finish Hoai Huong, before you can see me naming the shop, before I can say everything I want to say to you."

Bach Nguyen hugged her in the middle of the hospital hallway, not paying attention to the eyes of passersby. "Then I won't waste another moment," he said, his voice firm. "From now on, every day you have your mother awake, even if it's just for a minute, say everything you want to say. Don't wait until everything is completed to allow yourself to say it."

His words were like a gentle but profound awakening, making Bao Nghi realize that perhaps all this time, she had been so focused on completing a formula, a sign, a legal battle, that she sometimes forgot that the most precious thing was always right in front of her eyes every day - the moments, however short, of being with her mother when she still recognized her.

Bao Nghi nodded, wiped away her tears, feeling a bit of strength rekindle from his steadfast presence. But in her heart, a new worry also began to form — not just about the recipe, about the shop, but also about her mother's own condition, which seemed to be deteriorating faster than she had ever been prepared to face. The race against time is no longer just a metaphor, but has become a naked reality, tightening day by day.

That night, before going to bed, Bao Nghi went upstairs and sat next to her mother for a long time, telling her everything - about the trip to find cork flowers, about the lost batch of essential oil, about Bach Nguyen, about the upcoming festival - even though Mrs. Bich Van just sat quietly, looking out the window vaguely, not responding. But Bao Nghi still told it, slowly, patiently, believing that even if her mother could not remember it completely, at least in that moment, she could still feel the warm presence of her daughter next to her, and perhaps, that was a way to preserve memories no less important than any perfume formula. Before leaving the room, she bent down and gently kissed her mother's forehead, whispering a good night as she had done for the past two years, not knowing whether tonight or the next night would be a peaceful night, or another night of panic waiting ahead.