Chapter 25 — Vegetarian Restaurant Behind the Temple Gate

The next morning, when the dew was still thin on the surface of the lotus pond in front of Tinh Lien Pagoda's yard, a notice was solemnly pasted on the wooden board placed at the main gate, the handwriting of Venerable Thich Tue Thong was neat and careful, including the red seal of the Household Committee stamped below. Uncle Nhan Duc Phong was the first person to discover it, reading it over and over again three or four times before rushing to An Tam restaurant to call Yen Nhi.

"Come out and see, come out and see!" He called as he ran, his voice panting more from excitement than from fatigue, waving his hand toward the temple gate.

Yen Nhi quickly dropped her handkerchief, and along with Mrs. Cam Thi Nu and a few regular customers who were having breakfast, they hurriedly came out to see. The notice clearly stated, in formal but no less warm words: Tinh Lien Pagoda's Housekeeping Committee, after carefully considering the wishes of the abbot, the opinions of the Buddhist community and the people of Ben Truc town, officially decided not to continue to cooperate with Dai Phu Khang Group in the pagoda land development project. The entire pagoda campus, including the land An Tam Chay Quan is located on, will be kept intact, and the pagoda will carry out the necessary legal procedures to legalize land use rights in accordance with regulations, ensuring long-term benefits for the family who has been attached to and maintained the restaurant for the past twenty-five years.

There was sporadic applause, then it grew into a long chorus as more and more people came to read the announcement. Mr. Lanh Van Dat, using a cane, arrived later than everyone else, standing in front of the sign, wiping his sleeve across his eyes, saying nothing, just gently nodding many times as if nodding to his own late wife. Ms. On Bich Ha hugged Yen Nhi. They both burst into tears in the crowded temple yard. This time, the tears no longer carried the anxiety that had lasted for many months, but were as relieved as a late-season rain that had just stopped.

Standing on the porch of the Sangha's house, Venerable Thich Tue Thong watched the scene from afar, did not step out to join the happy crowd, but quietly clasped his hands towards the main hall, where the steady sound of the gongs of an early morning prayer session still echoed. All night long, after sending the monk back to his room to rest, he sat alone for a long time in his study, writing and rewriting that notice countless times, weighing every word, as if each word weighed a part of the responsibility he had carried on his shoulders for the past few months. He does not regret what he had considered before - the concern for a rundown temple, for the old and weak monks, is a real concern, not something to be ashamed of. But he also understands that there are calculations that cannot be measured only by money, and that lesson he learned not from any scripture, but from the eyes of ordinary people who crowded the temple grounds yesterday. He took a deep breath, feeling inside, for the first time in months, an unforced relief.

At noon, a car of Dai Phu Khang Group quietly parked at the beginning of Bo De Alley. It was not Sai Trong Phat, but two young staff members, who quietly dismantled the survey markers scattered around the temple grounds many months ago, tidied up and left without saying another word. Yen Nhi stood watching from the shop door, with an indescribable feeling in her heart - not exactly gloating over victory, but like she was witnessing a wind that had blown past and then calmed down, leaving the yard quiet again as it was.

Che Hoai Nam stopped by the restaurant in the middle of the afternoon, holding his phone, showing off to everyone his updated post about the festival's results that had been shared thousands of times in the morning alone, accompanied by warm comments from everywhere. "There are even people from the North texting me asking for the address of the restaurant, saying that if they have a chance to come to the South, they will definitely stop by to try your sour flower soup with chopsticks." he smiled, his eyes shining, "Miss Nhi has become a celebrity reluctantly."

Yen Nhi just smiled and shook her head, but in her heart she understood that what really touched her was not that attention, but the feeling that An Tam shop, from today, is no longer a place waiting to be erased, but a place that is allowed to continue to exist, continue to breathe in the same rhythm as the neighboring temple, as it has for the past twenty-five years.

In the evening, after the last customers left the restaurant, after Mrs. Nu went to bed early because she was tired after several days of staying up late and waking up early, Yen Nhi stayed alone in the kitchen, quietly cleaning up what was left from the festival - a few large pots still smelling of fried sticky rice, a wooden ladle with a worn handle from many years of use, her mother's recipe notebook still lying open on the table, the same page of sour soup compared to chopsticks, the familiar slanted letters under the soft yellow light.

She finished washing the last pot, hung it on the familiar hook, then stood silently in the middle of the kitchen, her hands still wet, the steam from the faucet still rising dimly in the light. Outside in the yard, the bell rang down from the pagoda, exactly at the time of the evening ritual, deck... deck... deck..., each ringing long and then fading into the night, exactly like the bell of the first morning in her memory, exactly the same as the bell that had followed her back to this place for two years.

Yen Nhi closed her eyes, letting the bell ring fully in her chest. She thought of the face of monk Mr. Giac Vien sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of the temple grounds yesterday, of Venerable Tue Thong's trembling but steadfast voice, of Mr. Lanh Van Dat's emotional testimonials, of Ms. On Bich Ha, of Thien Tam's eyes looking at her when she held the microphone to speak the words from the bottom of her heart. And then, for some reason, her mind drifted back to the moment the night before the festival, the moment she stood in this exact place, tasting her first ladle of soup that tasted like her mother, tears flowing uncontrollably.

A gentle breeze blew through the open kitchen window, carrying the scent of natural flowers from the trellis in the yard, a sweet scent that had been associated with this kitchen since Yen Nhi could not walk. She opened her eyes, looked around - the familiar yellow filament light, the walls mottled with moldy petal-shaped stains, the photo of her mother smiling brightly on the opening day hanging on the wall, the notebook still open on the table - everything that had been there for many years, nothing had changed, but for the first time, Yen Nhi felt something very different.

She felt her mother, right here, not in the memory, not in the handwritten recipe, but in the very air of this kitchen, in the smell of Thien Ly flowers, in the ringing of the temple bell, in the remaining warmth of the extinguished stove. Not a vague, distant presence like the times she tried to imagine in nostalgia, but a clear, close peace, as if her mother was standing right behind her, one hand gently placed on her shoulder, silently watching her grow up, relearning how to stand firmly in the kitchen she left behind.

Tears welled up in Yen Nhi's eyes, but this time, it was unlike any other time during the past two years. Not tears of unresolved pain, not tears of helplessness before a formula that cannot be found again, but tears of completeness, a gratitude so deep that there is no room for any other emotion to interfere. She stood there, in the middle of the small kitchen, letting those tears fall freely, without needing to wipe them away, without needing to hold back, as if she had finally allowed herself to be completely weak right where her mother had been strong for a quarter of a century.

There were soft footsteps outside in the yard, then the familiar figure of Lang Thien Tam appeared in the door frame, his hand still holding a small flashlight, perhaps he had just gone to check the bamboo tent roof before dismantling it tomorrow. He stopped when he saw Yen Nhi standing there, her shoulders shaking slightly, but this time he didn't ask what was wrong, didn't ask if she was okay. He just quietly walked in, stood one step away from her, then reached out, gently holding her hand hanging at her side.

Yen Nhi did not withdraw her hand. She turned to look at him, her eyes still wet but shining with an unprecedented peace, and in that moment, neither of them needed to say anything more. Thien Tam gently squeezed her hand, a brief but intense squeeze, then stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her gently, as if afraid of breaking the fragile moment that had just formed. Yen Nhi leaned her head on his shoulder, her breathing gradually returned to normal, the sounds of both people's heartbeats mixed together in the silence of the small kitchen, under the soft yellow light, amidst the scent of Thien Ly flowers lingering in the air.

Outside in the yard, the sound of the temple bell had long since stopped, only the chirping of night crickets echoed from the flower trellis, and the thin moonlight of the first week had just risen from the trees, spreading a layer of gentle silver light onto the old tile roof of the shop, onto the temple roof in the distance, onto both figures standing silently together in the kitchen - a new beginning, not yet needing to be named, but warm enough to close a long and stormy road, and strong enough to open something up. there, slowly, peacefully, waiting to be written again.