Chapter 9 — Unnamed Perfume Shop

On Sunday, Bach Nguyen came to the shop early, carrying a small metal suitcase containing specialized typography equipment — a hand-held ultraviolet lamp, a magnifying glass with LED lights around it, and several different light-filtering films. He placed everything on the mixing table, carefully like a doctor preparing surgical instruments, while Bao Nghi nervously stood next to him, clutching an old leather notebook with half-burnt pages.

"Before starting, I have to say first, maybe nothing will come out," Bach Nguyen said, his voice careful, not wanting her to get her hopes up too much. "Burned paper is different from paper that is just blurred due to time, the paper fibers have been destroyed at the molecular level, sometimes the ink still leaves chemical traces even though the naked eye cannot see it, but sometimes there is nothing left."

"I understand," Bao Nghi nodded, put the notebook on the table, opened it to the burned page, her hands shaking slightly. For many years, she had always told herself that she had accepted that the missing part of the "Hoai Huong" formula would forever be a void that could not be filled, but now, when a glimmer of hope appeared, no matter how fragile, she realized that she had never really let go of that hope.

Bach Nguyen turned on the ultraviolet light, turned off all the regular lights in the shop, causing the room to sink into a strange dark purple color. He dragged the lamp slowly across the blackened paper, his eyes glued to the magnifying glass. There was a tense silence that lasted nearly a minute, only the sound of both people's breathing could be heard in the deep purple darkness. Then, suddenly, he cried out softly. "Yes! There are ink stains here, very faint but real."

Bao Nghi quickly leaned closer and looked over his shoulder into the magnifying lens. Under the ultraviolet light, a few vague handwritings appeared on the blackened paper, like ghosts of memories, difficult to read but not completely meaningless. Bach Nguyen slowly moved the lamp, noting down each readable paragraph on a separate piece of paper. After nearly an hour of meticulous work, they pieced together a few more fragmentary words: "...three drops of young grapefruit peel oil... leave it for seven days in the dark... the smell must fade over time, like a fading memory, but never completely disappear..."

"The smell must fade over time, but never disappear completely," Bao Nghi repeated, her voice choked. It was not simply a technical instruction, but a philosophy her grandmother had embedded in the formula itself — a scent designed to fade on purpose, reflecting the very way human memories work, fading but never completely disappearing as long as one keeps it in one's heart.

"Are you okay?" Bach Nguyen asked, realizing that tears had rolled down her cheeks without realizing it.

"I'm fine," she replied, quickly wiping away her tears and smiling softly. "It's just... I never thought I would read any more words from this page. Thank you, truly."

At that moment, the shell bell at the door rang, and a small, slightly hunched old man walked in, leaning on a polished ebony walking stick. He stopped in the middle of the door, squinting at the strange scene in front of him - the dark shop with only dim purple lights, two young people bowing their heads close to each other at the mixing table. "My God, the shop is closed but there are still strange lights," the old man spoke up, his voice joking but warm and familiar.

"Mr. Nguyen!" Bao Nghi exclaimed happily, quickly turned the regular light back on, and ran out to welcome him in. "I was going to find you, but I didn't expect you to come by at this time."

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen, now seventy years old but still lucid, smiled kindly, looked around the shop, his eyes stopped for a long time on the old leather notebook open on the table. The smile on his lips suddenly disappeared, replaced by a deep contemplation. "Mrs. Anh Nguyet's last notebook," he said softly, his voice as if he was touching an old wound that had not yet fully healed. "It's been a long time since I've seen it."

Bao Nghi quickly introduced Bach Nguyen to him, briefly explaining that they had just used an ultraviolet light to read a few more words from the burned page. Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen nodded and sat down in a rattan chair. His eyes, which had become cloudy due to age, suddenly shone with the light of someone who was reliving a precious memory. "I worked as an assistant for Mrs. Anh Nguyet since I was twenty years old," he said, his voice slow, "back then she only knew how to mix simple recipes, but the complex, delicate recipes were all done by her with her own hands, no one was allowed touch them. She was a perfectionist to the point of being scary, sometimes she tried a recipe twenty times and still wasn't satisfied."

"Do you remember anything about the Hoai Huong formula?" Bao Nghi asked, her voice urgent, leaning forward.

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen was silent for a long time, his hand fiddled with the tip of his cane, his eyes looking far away as if he were going back to a period of time more than twenty years ago. "I remember," he said finally, his voice low. "I remember it very clearly, because that was also the year that a small fire broke out in the factory behind me, and it was also the last year she was alive. But it's a long story, I'll tell it in more detail someday, I'm old today, I can't tell it in one breath." He smiled, a somewhat forced smile, as if trying to hide a pain that was still intact even after so many years.

Bao Nghi did not force him, just held his thin hand and squeezed it gently. "So when you're ready, I'll come to your house and listen to the story. There's no need to rush."

He nodded, looked at Bach Nguyen, observed him for a moment with the scrutiny of an experienced person. "Who is this guy? Are you a relative of mine?" he asked Bao Nghi curiously.

"No, this is Mr. Bach Nguyen, the architect, helping me learn about this notebook," Bao Nghi replied, a bit confused, not knowing how to fully explain the complicated relationship between them - both the person who can take away the house, and the person who is helping her in a rare sincere way.

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen looked at Bach Nguyen for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing, a hearty laugh rarely seen in a seventy-year-old man. "You're old but your eyes are still very sharp," he said, his voice full of meaning, making both young people blush and not knowing how to respond. "Okay, I'm going home, let you two continue working. Hey, whenever you have free time, just stop by my house, bring that notebook, I'll try to remember everything I can, consider it the debt I've owed to Mrs. Anh Nguyet for so many years."

Before leaving, Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen lingered for a few more minutes, standing in front of a row of wooden shelves, gently touching each labelless glass bottle as if greeting old friends. "I remember this shelf used to be much lower than it is now," he said, his voice filled with excitement. "Mrs. Anh Nguyet built it herself, she didn't hire a carpenter. She said that to build a shelf, you have to understand the properties of wood like you understand the properties of spices, in order to keep the furniture inside for a long time. Back then, when you were young, you often criticized her for being too picky than necessary. Now that I think about it, I see that she was right, this shelf has been standing for more than half a century."

"You live near the old market, right? I can visit you someday," Bao Nghi asked, helping him to the door.

"Yes, my house is still in the same place, unchanged for decades," he replied, then turned to look at Bach Nguyen again, his eyes both searching and somewhat affectionate. "Architect, please keep this place for me, don't let it turn into something without a soul. I'm old, I won't live long to see it, but I believe you understand what I'm saying."

Bach Nguyen nodded, his voice becoming more serious. "I'll do my best, sir."

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen smiled with satisfaction, leaned on his cane and walked slowly on the sidewalk, his shadow lengthening in the sunset until he completely disappeared behind the corner of the street. After Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen left, Bao Nghi and Bach Nguyen sat down, both feeling a new breath of vitality had just poured into the search, which had been in a deadlock for many days. "He definitely knows more than what he just said," Bach Nguyen commented, packing the scanning device back into his suitcase.

"I think so too," Bao Nghi replied, closed the notebook, and hugged it with even deeper respect than before. "But I don't want to force him. Some memories take time to be ready to be told." She looked at Bach Nguyen, her eyes were gentle. "Just like you, right? It took me a long time to tell you about my mother."

Bach Nguyen nodded, his eyes met hers, and in that moment, a warm silence enveloped them both, no more words were needed to describe what was growing between them. "Thank you, for giving me a reason to come back here not just for work," he said softly, his voice so sincere that it made Bao Nghi's heart beat faster.

Outside the window, the afternoon light dyed the whole street of Hang Diep yellow, and in the small shop, between the smell of old paper, the purple smoke of hours spent studying letters, and the smell of cold tea on the table, something new, fragile but solid was silently sprouting - not only the hope of a lost formula about to be rediscovered, but also a feeling that neither of them dared to name.