Chapter 20 — Vegetarian Restaurant Behind the Temple Gate

Sai Trong Phat appeared late one afternoon, unannounced, no longer accompanied by a group of well-suited staff like previous times. He came alone, wearing a simple shirt, parked his black car some distance from the shop, and walked in like a normal customer. At that time, the shop was closed, only Yen Nhi was cleaning the tables and chairs and preparing to close. Her grandmother had gone inside to rest early because of her joint pain. He ordered a cup of lotus tea, sat down at a table near the door, and silently watched Yen Nhi work for a long time before speaking.

"Miss Nhi, I don't come here today as a representative of Dai Phu Khang," he said, his voice was soft, completely different from the confident and eloquent demeanor he had shown in the meeting before the Temple Protection Committee. "I came as an individual."

Yen Nhi stopped wiping the table, looked at him, said nothing, just waited.

"I read the article about you," he continued, "and I also heard about the signature campaign. To be honest, you did much better than I expected. My company's leadership started to feel troubled — the project was delayed, local public opinion was not favorable, some investment partners expressed hesitation. But I didn't come here to scare you." He paused, took a sip of tea, then looked straight into her eyes. "I came to suggest another plan — a private plan, between you and me, that has nothing to do with the temple or the Guardian Committee."

He took out a piece of paper from his briefcase, placed it on the table, and gently pushed it towards her. It was a brief handwritten proposal, clearly stating an amount of money - a number that made Yen Nhi look a second time to make sure she hadn't read it wrong - with conditions: she would withdraw the entire campaign, publicly declare her support for the pagoda's development cooperation policy with Dai Phu Khang, and voluntarily move the shop to another place within six months. In return, she will receive that amount of money as "new business start-up support", enough for her to open another vegetarian restaurant wherever she wants, even enough to provide her grandmother with a comfortable life in the future.

"I know you're very tired," Sai Trong Phat said, his voice so sincere that it was hard for Yen Nhi to deny that he wasn't completely lying. "You alone shoulder the whole shop, the whole campaign, and your old and weak grandmother. You can fight for a few more months, even win a few small battles, but in the end, projects like this, are almost never stopped just because of a small group of protesters. I don't want you to be exhausted, lose both the shop and your health, and get nothing. This money is a smooth way out. Just think carefully, you don't need to answer me right away."

He stood up, left the paper on the table, paid for the tea and left, without waiting for an answer, like a person who is used to planting a seed and patiently waiting for it to germinate on its own.

Yen Nhi sat alone for a long time after he left, the paper still lying on the table, the number seemed to be staring at her amidst the pale yellow light of the closed shop. She thought of the sleepless nights worrying about land rental prices, of the morning of poor service that made her doubt herself, of the growing burden of the campaign on her shoulders - the calls, the meetings, the expectant eyes of the whole neighborhood focused on her as if she were the only one who could save both the temple and the small shop. She thought of her grandmother, eighty-one years old, getting weaker every day, and she wondered if one day she was truly exhausted and collapsed, like her old teacher in Saigon, who would take care of her.

There was a moment, sitting in the middle of a quiet restaurant, Yen Nhi found herself almost wanting to nod. Not because of greed for money, but because of a deep exhaustion, a tired voice in her heart whispered that perhaps letting go was a legitimate way to escape, that she had tried her best, that no one had the right to blame her if she chose a gentler path for herself and her aging grandmother. She picked up the piece of paper, her fingers skimmed over the number, her heart wavering violently between two opposing voices in her head.

At that moment, there was a light knock on the door. Mr. Lanh Van Dat stood on the porch, holding a small oil lantern, his wrinkled face appearing in the dim light. "I saw the restaurant's lights were still on so I came by," he said, "I missed my appointment and haven't been able to eat a bowl of mushroom soup yet. I'm sure it's bothering you to come so late."

Yen Nhi quickly put the paper in her pocket, stood up and quickly made him a bowl of wormwood mushroom soup left over from the afternoon, reheating it on the charcoal stove. Mr. Dat sat down to eat slowly, as always, his old eyes looking far into the dark yard, then suddenly spoke, his voice filled with regret: "You know, when my wife was still alive, she used to say something to me, I still remember it. She said, this small restaurant, it's not just about selling rice and soup. It's a place where people, after a hard day, or after a funeral, or a sadness, have a place to sit down, eat a meal, and feel like they still have a place to live." Someone remembers. I'm old, you know, every week I eat this bowl of soup, not because I'm hungry, but because every time I eat, I feel like my wife is still sitting next to me."

He finished speaking, took a spoonful of soup, his eyes were slightly teary, then smiled, as if afraid he had just revealed something too personal. "I'm old, I talk nonsense, don't take it to heart."

But Yen Nhi did not consider that as gossip. She stood silently behind the counter, her hands still feeling the folded paper in her pocket, and suddenly everything became painfully clear. She is not just keeping a shop, a livelihood, an asset that can be converted into money. She is holding a place that people like Mr. Dat, like Ms. Bich Ha, like many other people in this town of Ben Truc, have entrusted memories that cannot be bought or sold, cannot be moved anywhere else with just a sum of money, no matter how generous. If she received the money, moved the restaurant to another place and reopened it, she might still be able to cook the mushroom and wormwood soup, but it would no longer be a place where Mr. Dat could sit next to "his wife". It will just be another restaurant, in another place, with a different name in the hearts of those who once belonged to this place.

That night, after sending Mr. Dat home, Yen Nhi sat at the table, took out Sai Trong Phat's proposal, read it one last time under the light, then folded it in half, did not tear it, just put it in a drawer as a reminder of her own moment of weakness. She remembered Thien Tam's hand on her shoulder on the anniversary of her mother's death, and remembered what he said that there are people who are not in a formula but in a moment, a person. She thought, perhaps this shop is the same - its value does not lie in the four walls or the land it is located on, but in every moment that people like Mr. Dat, like Ms. Bich Ha, like the monk, like Thien Tam, have passed by with her.

The next morning, Yen Nhi proactively went to the meeting place where Sai Trong Phat had left his phone number and met him at a small coffee shop at the beginning of town. He looked at her with questioning eyes, perhaps partly predicting the answer through her steadfast expression.

"I thank you for thinking about my situation," Yen Nhi said, her voice calm but firm, placing the folded piece of paper on the table and pushing it towards him. "But I can't accept it. Not because the amount of money isn't big enough. But because that shop, it's not mine so I can decide whether to sell it or keep it. It belongs to my mother, to my grandfather - who died in a flood to save people in the neighborhood, to how many people have grown up, grieved, and found some peace within those four walls. I have no right to exchange it for a new start for myself, no matter how easy that start is."

Sai Trong Phat was silent for a long time, then nodded slightly, not angry, not openly disappointed, only a little something like cautious respect flashed through his eyes. "Okay, Miss Nhi. I respect your decision. But I also have to be honest — this fight won't get any easier, from today."

"I know," Yen Nhi replied, standing up, her voice no longer wavering from the night before. "But I'd rather be exhausted from fighting for something worth keeping, than relieved from letting go of something I'll regret for the rest of my life."

She left the coffee shop and walked out onto the road leading to Bo De Alley under the early morning sun, her heart feeling light as if a burden had been lifted, even though there were still challenges ahead. In the distance, the big bell from Tinh Lien Pagoda echoed down, deck... deck... deck..., regularly like every morning, like a reminder that no matter which side the storm comes from, the peaceful rhythm of life here is still there, waiting for her to return to continue preserving it. Yen Nhi walked faster, a new determination arose in her heart, stronger than at any time since the day she put pen to paper and wrote the first line on the petition: the battle between the two sides of gain and loss is still long, but she will not be alone, and she will not back down.