Chapter 27 — Vegetarian Restaurant Behind the Temple Gate

After receiving the land lease contract, the pace of life at Quan Chay An Tam strangely slowed down, as if the whole small alley had just let out a breath it had been holding for nearly a year. Yen Nhi realized that she was starting to have quiet moments in the middle of the day that she had never allowed herself to have before - moments of standing against the kitchen door looking at the sunlight passing through the Thien Ly flower trellis, afternoons of packing up earlier than usual just to sit and drink a cup of tea with Mrs. Nu without thinking about anything else. She silently called it "extra time", even though in her heart she clearly knew it wasn't excess at all - it was something she had lost for a long time, and was just now starting to learn how to possess it again.

That Wednesday afternoon, Thien Tam repaired the Thien Ly flower trellis. The wooden frame had rotted in a few places after the recent rainy season. He wore a faded brown cloth shirt, the sleeves were rolled up to reveal the familiar calluses, diligently measuring, sawing, and planing each new piece of wood to replace the rotten area. Yen Nhi brought him a pot of lotus tea and sat down on a nearby step, not helping much other than handing him tools when he needed it, but she liked to sit there, watching him work - slow, steady movements, not the least bit hasty, as if to Thien Tam, repairing a flower trellis was as worthy of being treated with the same respect as reciting a sutra.

"You're really good at carpentry." She said, breaking the comfortable silence that had lasted nearly half an hour. "When were you at the temple, when did you learn this profession?"

Thien Tam stopped brushing, sat down next to her, took the cup of tea she gave him, took a sip before answering, his voice was low and slow as always. "Since I first became a monk, the monk assigned me the job of taking care of the temple grounds, including repairing damaged areas. At first I did it out of duty, not doing it skillfully, driving curved nails, sawing off track countless times. But gradually I realized that this carpentry profession teaches me something that chanting sometimes cannot teach - that each grain of wood has its own grain, you have to look very carefully, for a long time, to know which direction to saw so it doesn't crack or break. broken. It taught me patience in a very concrete, very... touching way."

Yen Nhi nodded silently, her eyes following the streaks of afternoon sunlight through the leaves, pouring tiny spots of light onto the shoulders of his shirt. She thought about her own story — about relearning how to cook not with a recipe but with presence, and realized that between the two of them, there was an underlying thread of similarity running throughout their journey: both were learning to do something familiar with a new heart.

"Thank you." She spoke softly, after a moment of silence. "Not just because of this flower trellis. Because all this time, every time I almost wanted to give up, you always appeared at the right time, even if it was just a word, a look." She hesitated, her hand gently squeezing the handle of the cooled teacup. "I don't know if without you, I would still have the strength to go to this day."

Thien Tam turned to look at her, his eyes in that pale afternoon had a gentleness that made Yen Nhi's heart skip a beat. "I think you underestimate yourself." he said. "But I'm also honest... every time I stand next to you, watching you try, I learn a lot. About believing in something long enough for it to have a chance to come true." He put the teacup down on the steps, his hands clasped together, with a rare hesitation in a person who was always calm. "Yen Nhi, I want to tell you something, I've been keeping it in my heart for quite a while."

Yen Nhi's heart beat faster, she turned to look straight at him, said nothing, just waited.

"Since the day I returned to secular life, I have remained at the temple, still doing this job, partly because I truly believe this is the right path of service for me. But there is also another part, I did not dare to admit even to myself at first." He spoke slowly, each word seemed carefully considered. "It's that I want to be close to you. Not out of pity, not out of curiosity, but because every time I look at you standing in the kitchen, watching you persevere through each difficult day, I feel... there's something inside me that wants to walk with you on that path, not as a distant companion, but as something much closer."

The afternoon wind shook the Thien Ly flower trellis above their heads, a few small petals fell, one petal landed lightly on Yen Nhi's shoulder. She felt a lump in her throat, not from sadness, but from a happiness so great that she didn't know where to store it in her small chest. "Me too." She spoke, her voice shaky but clear. "I've felt that for a long time too, I'm just afraid... afraid that saying anything will ruin something that's so beautiful between us."

Thien Tam smiled slightly, reached out his hand, not hastily, just gently placed it on Yen Nhi's hand that was placed on the steps between the two of them. His hands were rough from wood, from chisels, from years of manual labor, but the touch was strangely gentle, as if he was touching something whose value he knew very well and didn't want to hurt in the slightest. Yen Nhi did not withdraw her hand. She let it go, feeling the warmth transmitted from his palm, and in that moment, the whole world seemed to be filled with only the sound of the wind in the flower trellis, the sound of temple bells echoing in the distance, and her own heartbeat beating in a completely new rhythm.

"Can we just go slowly?" She asked, her voice soft, her eyes still looking down at their touching hands. "I don't want to rush anything anymore. I want to have enough time so we can both be sure."

"Okay." Thien Tam replied, gently squeezing her hand a little. His eyes were so sincere that Yen Nhi felt her heart soften completely. "I have learned something important during my years at the temple, which is that the most sustainable things often do not come from haste. I am willing to go slowly with you, for as long as it takes."

That evening, when Yen Nhi went into the kitchen to help Mrs. Nu clean up the pots and pans, her grandmother glanced at her granddaughter for a long time, her mischievous eyes unable to hide the smile that was about to burst out from the corner of her wrinkled mouth. "Teacher Tam and I - well, I should call him Uncle Tam now - sat on the porch for a long time today." She said, pretending to diligently wipe the pot that had long been clean. "You're old, but your eyes aren't blind yet."

Yen Nhi blushed, bent down and pretended to be busy rearranging the pile of dishes. "What are you talking about? We're just fixing the flower trellis."

"Fixing a flower trellis and holding hands for an hour?" Mrs. Nu burst into laughter, put down the pot, walked closer, placed her wrinkled hands on her granddaughter's shoulders, her eyes suddenly softened and became more serious. "I'm happy for you, Nhi. Tam is gentle, kind, skilled, and loves people. If your mother were still alive, she would be very pleased." She stopped, her voice suddenly low, full of emotion. "I just hope you don't fear happiness like you've feared it for so many years. You deserve to be loved and loved, like anyone else in this world."

Yen Nhi hugged her, burying her face in her familiar skinny shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of betel and areca nut and oil that always lingered on her shirt. "I know, grandma." She whispered, her voice choked. "I promise I won't be afraid anymore."

The next morning, before the restaurant opened, Yen Nhi rode her bike alone to the small cemetery on the edge of town, where her parents rested next to each other under two simple stone stele, surrounded by a few flower clusters that Mrs. Nu still fertilized regularly after ten o'clock. She placed on the grave a small plate of crumbled sticky rice, a bowl of hot sour soup with chopsticks, and sat down next to her, remaining silent for a long time before speaking, her small voice as if whispering to the wind.

"Dad, mom, I came to tell you the good news." She said, looking at the two stele engraved with the names Giap Van Khiem and Cam Thi Xuan, the handwriting has slightly faded over the years. "I can keep the shop. The pagoda granted me a fifty-year land lease contract. It means my children and grandchildren have a solid foothold. My parents don't need to worry anymore." She spoke meticulously, as if she were talking to a living person - about the contract, about Sai Trong Phat, about teacher Tue Thong and the application for recognition of the relic. Her voice rose and fell with each detail, sometimes bursting into laughter when recalling a witty saying of Mrs. Nu.

Then she stopped, took a deep breath, and looked down at her hands resting on her knees. "I also want to tell my parents about Uncle Thien Tam." She said, her voice a bit shy like a teenage girl. "I think I really love him, Mom and Dad. He's gentle, kind, and most importantly, he helps me learn to believe in good things again, after everything I've been through." The morning wind blew through the ten o'clock flowers, making them sway slightly, and Yen Nhi smiled, as if that was her parents' answer to her. "I know my parents will probably like him very much. I'm just sorry that they weren't there to see for themselves."

She sat for a while longer, letting the morning sunlight gradually warm her shoulders, letting the sound of birds singing in the trees around the cemetery penetrate her heart, soothing a sadness that had followed her for two years. This is no longer the sharp sadness of the first days back, when every time my mother was mentioned, the wound bled again. Now, it has turned into a gentle nostalgia, like the scent of incense lingering on her shirt after a ceremony, reminding her of how far she has come, how much she has grown, without making her feel down.

"I will cook well, I will live well, I will keep my restaurant warm like you used to do in the past." She said the last word, stood up, and gently brushed the grass off her dress. "Mom, dad, rest assured. You're not alone anymore."

On the bike ride home, the early morning sun spread gold across the dirt road leading town, and the cool breeze blew through Yen Nhi's neatly tied hair. She cycled slowly, not rushing like other mornings, letting her heart absorb this rare feeling of relief - the feeling of someone who has just laid down a burden that has been carried for too long, and realized that her shoulders, even though she thought they were exhausted, turned out to still have enough strength to carry new things, better things, waiting ahead.