Chapter 8 — Unnamed Perfume Shop

It took nearly a week of rummaging through a pile of old books for Bao Nghi to find her mother's customer record book, covered in dust in a wooden box under the stairs - a place she rarely paid attention to because she always thought it only contained old, unused items. The book was thick, hardcover covered in faded jacquard, with chronological notes, each page containing the name of a customer, the item they brought, and the recipe her mother had mixed for them, spanning from the year her mother first took over the shop until a few years before she fell ill.

She flipped through each page, her eyes glued to her mother's neat handwriting, searching for the three words "Chu Diem Hong" among hundreds of unfamiliar names. The work was slow and somewhat frustrating — many of the pages were faded, some pages were stained with water and could not be read — but she persevered, because in her heart, finding traces of Bach Nguyen's deceased mother now held a greater meaning than simple curiosity. It was like a way for her to prove to herself that this perfume shop, even though small and nameless, still had a real weight in the lives of those who had passed through its doors, even if they no longer remembered all the details.

Near the end of the notebook, on a page with a date from sixteen years ago, she stopped. Her mother's words were written: "Chu Diem Hong — son's blue wool coat, a boy named Nguyen, 13 years old. Request: a scent for his grandmother (Noi Mien) who has spent three years, to give to her son when he grows up. Note: the customer said the grandmother likes osmanthus flowers, often sits knitting by the window, the house is near the river."

Bao Nghi read and reread that line three times, her heart pounding. Not only did the name match, but the age of the "boy named Nguyen" also matched exactly with what Bach Nguyen had told her - sixteen years ago, if he was twenty-nine years old now, then he would have been exactly thirteen years old, exactly as her mother wrote down. What moved her the most was not that coincidence, but the content of the request: a mother, knowing she didn't have much time left - because only a year later, according to Bach Nguyen, she passed away - came here, not to buy a scent for herself, but to prepare a gift of memory for her son, a scent of her deceased grandmother, as a way to extend the chain of family memories before she herself left.

She took her phone and texted Bach Nguyen, her hands shaking slightly: "I found it. Can you come by?"

He arrived less than half an hour later, looking in a rare hurry, his hair had not yet been combed, his shirt was disheveled as if he had just left the meeting in the middle of the meeting. "What did you find?" he asked as soon as he walked through the door, not having time to say hello as usual.

Bao Nghi gave him the notebook and pointed to that line. He took it and read it slowly, and Bao Nghi clearly saw his hand tremble slightly as he scanned each word. At the sentence "to give to my son when he grows up", he stopped, swallowed, his eyes red. "Noi Mien," he whispered, his voice choked. "My grandmother's name is Mien. I... I don't remember her face clearly, I only remember a few fragmentary images, a woman sitting by the window knitting, that's right, my grandparents' house used to be near the river, in the suburbs."

He sat down on the chair, holding the notebook with both hands as if holding a treasure, remaining silent for a long time. Bao Nghi sat opposite, not urging him to speak, just quietly pouring him a cup of tea, giving him time to digest the overflowing emotions. "My mother never gave me that gift," he said at last, his voice hoarse. "She died suddenly, of a heart attack while returning from work, just a year after she came here. After that, everything in the house was in disarray. My father was so sad that he moved to another place, many things were lost. I never knew my mother had prepared such a thing for me."

"Maybe your mother intended to wait until you were old enough to give it to you," Bao Nghi said softly, "but she didn't have time to come back to receive the goods."

Bach Nguyen nodded, her eyes looking far away at the row of wooden shelves, as if trying to imagine the image of her mother standing somewhere in this very store sixteen years ago, young, still full of hope for the years ahead that she didn't know she wouldn't have. "Do you think," he asked, his voice trembling, "is there still... is there any way to find that formula? Even if it's just so I know, what my mother thought of my grandmother, what she wanted me to remember about her."

Bao Nghi bit her lip, flipped to the next page, looking for the specific recipe that her mother might have included in notes, but that page only had a description of the request, no detailed recipe attached — perhaps the real recipe was recorded in another notebook, a specialized recipe book that her mother kept separate, separate from this customer book. "I have to find more," she said, her voice both determined and apologetic for not being able to give him a complete answer right away. "But I promise I'll do my best. If that formula is still somewhere in these books, I'll find it."

"Thank you," Bach Nguyen said, his voice so sincere that it made Bao Nghi feel a warmth spreading in her chest. "I know this is not part of any of your responsibilities. You can completely see me as someone who wants to take away your house, which is true, considering the work I'm doing. But you still help me."

"I don't think those two things necessarily contradict each other," Bao Nghi replied, looking straight into his eyes. "I'm also someone who left a part of my memories here, even though I didn't know it. To you, it also means that, no matter what happens to this house, you and I are on the same side — the side of those who don't want their memories to be forgotten."

Bach Nguyen looked at her, something in his eyes moved, a clear softening compared to the initial reserve and caution. "I'll talk to my uncle," he said, his voice much firmer. "I don't promise to change your decision, but at least I will try to help you better understand the true value of this place, not just square meters of land or transfer value."

Before leaving, Bach Nguyen stayed a while longer, offering to help her search through the pile of wooden boxes under the stairs to see if there were any other books that might contain detailed formulas. The two sat down on the floor, amidst layers of dust and the strong smell of old paper, opening each box and each yellowed file in turn. There were times when their hands accidentally touched each other when reaching for a notebook. They both paused for a split second and then quickly withdrew their hands. No one said anything more, but the atmosphere between them changed, softer and closer than the first tense meeting.

"Are you going to tell me about the Hoai Huong formula, or do I have to guess gradually?" Bach Nguyen asked, his voice lightly joking to break the awkward silence, his hand continuing to flip through a stack of dusty old papers.

"I already told you everything," Bao Nghi replied, laughing softly, suddenly realizing that she had used a more intimate address than usual without realizing it. "It's just that I haven't found the specific formula yet."

"Let me help you then," he said, his voice serious again. "I once restored a drawing of an ancient communal house that was half burned. The Chinese-Nom characters engraved on the rafters were almost completely blurred. I had to use an ultraviolet light and a specialized magnifying glass to read it again. Maybe your grandmother's burned page also had a few ink strokes left under the ash that the naked eye could not see. If you agree, I can borrow the company's equipment and bring it here to try."

Bao Nghi looked at him, a ray of real hope flashed in her heart for the first time since she started this search. "Can you really do that?" she asked, her voice unable to hide her excitement.

"I can't promise, but it's worth a try," he replied, smiling, a rare and warm smile that Bao Nghi realized he really liked to see. "I'll bring the equipment over this weekend, if you're free."

"I'm free," she replied immediately, somewhat more hastily than necessary, making herself laugh at her impatience.

That afternoon, after Bach Nguyen left, Bao Nghi sat alone, opened the customer book again, read a few more pages around the words about Chu Diem Hong, trying to imagine the scene sixteen years ago - a young woman, perhaps gradually getting weaker, walked into this very store, holding in her heart the fear of not much time left, trying to leave something for her son before it was too late. She thought of her mother, of her fading memory, and realized that, despite their different circumstances, both mothers were, or had been, racing against the same invisible enemy: time, which never waits for anyone, no matter how much they love each other.

She closed the notebook, held it in her arms for a long time, then stood up and walked to the window looking out at the lights on Hang Diep Street. Somewhere out there, in the old drawers of this house, there are certainly many other unfinished stories hidden - not only of her family, but of many other families who have placed part of their memories here. And she, the last heiress of that remembering nose, understands that her responsibility is now not only to save her grandmother's formula, but also to preserve a treasure trove of invisible memories that this nameless perfume shop has quietly accumulated over the past fifty years.