Chapter 1 — When the Wind Crosses the Porch

The yellow piece of paper was pinned askew on the gate, right where her father used to hang the storm lantern every time a storm came. Mai dragged her suitcase across the yard and saw the bold letters before she could see her mother.

NOTICE OF INVENTORY AND GROUND CLEARANCE.

Below was the name of a company she had never heard of, a red seal and a date fourteen days from today. The person who prepared the record recorded that the house was located in the area expected to expand the coastal road. The old family house, where Mai left seven years ago, is marked with a blue pen.

“Don't tear,” Mom said from the porch. “Tear it up and they say I'm against it.”

Hanh stood next to the sewing machine, her small body in a faded brown shirt. She did not run out to hug her child, nor did she ask if the train ride was tiring. The hand on the sewing machine pedal only moved slightly, as if even stopping needed a reason.

Mai set up her suitcase next to the steps. The smell of seaweed, wind oil and old fabric mixed in the air. She prepared a speech on the way home: she would stay with her mother for three days, find a buyer, sign the papers, and then return to Da Nang before the project at the company entered the acceptance phase. That speech suddenly no longer had a place.

“How long have you known about this?”

"This morning."

“How discolored is the paper this morning?”

Hanh returned to the house. “Have you eaten anything while on the road?”

Mai pulled the paper out of the gate and placed it on the wooden table. The edge of the paper has a careful fold. She works as an architect and is used to drawings edited with red pen and documents that try to hide a number under many layers of text. This notice is not ordinary photo paper. The stamp ink is new, but the appendix at the back was printed from an old file. The land area line reads 168 square meters, while the mother's real estate book is 214 square meters.

“They measured our house nearly fifty meters short.”

“They said the back part is a common path.”

"Which is the common path? Dad's guava garden is not a road."

"Tomorrow." Hanh called her daughter's name as if calling someone standing near the water's edge. "Don't argue with them. If we can sell it, it's good. After selling, mom moves in with Aunt Nam, so you don't have to run back and forth."

Mai looked out onto the porch. The wooden pillar on the left still has her pencil marks from elementary school, the height measurement lines connecting until she was taller than her mother. On the wall next to the door, father used to hang a tide calendar. He wrote in blue ink the days when the sea was rough, the days when fishermen should not go to sea. After he passed away, no one took down the last calendar. It was still open in November seven years ago, the number 17 was circled.

"Mom, did you call me back to sell the house or should I help you fight this?"

Hanh bent down to collect the rolls of thread. "Mom called because the other day Ms. Hao said there was someone bidding. When you get home, help me look at the papers. Whether you like it or not, we don't have the money to follow them."

Mai laughed, but the laugh sounded like an object falling into a ceramic bowl. “Do you ever tell me anything directly?”

Hanh did not answer. She gave her a clean towel and pointed to her old room. "Pack your things. Your room is still intact. Uncle Sau Luu will come and measure the yard again this afternoon."

Mai's room has a window overlooking the embankment. The blue paint was blistered, but the bookshelf still had all the books she had forgotten. She pulled her suitcase onto the bed, took out her laptop, and closed it again. Phone vibrates. The team leader's text message reminded her to submit the edit before six o'clock. Mai typed "I just returned home, I sent it tonight" and deleted it. She didn't want to say she was returning because her mother was standing in front of a piece of paper that could take away the house.

Outside the yard, the sound of a motorbike stopped. Uncle Sau Luu walked in with an orange tape measure hanging on his side. He used to work as a cooperative treasurer, retired but still kept the habit of counting everything: the number of steps from the gate to the well, the number of intact tiles on the roof, the number of people who had not paid for dried fish.

“Are you coming home tomorrow?” he asked, without waiting for an answer he looked at the notice. “Huong Duong Company sent it?”

“Do you know this company?”

"Just know the name. Vinh is working there."

Vinh is his father's cousin, ten years younger than him. When she was little, Mai used to call Uncle Vinh because he often brought ginger candy from the city. Later, Vinh and his father argued once about the land. No one told Mai what happened, only that from then on he never walked through the gate again.

Six Pomegranate rolls a ruler. "Measuring is still measuring. But listen to me: the backyard is on the old paper. Last year your father even asked me to photocopy three copies."

“Where is the photocopy?”

Uncle looked at Hanh. Hanh was folding thread without looking up.

"I keep one copy. Your mother keeps one copy. The third copy..." He hesitated. “Your father brought it to a meeting with the commune.”

Mai felt her throat dry. “What's the meeting about?”

“The sea embankment story.”

Hanh dropped the thread. It rolled under the sewing machine, hitting the table leg with a clatter.

“Uncle Sau,” she said, “what's the point of bringing up old stories?”

"The old story that they use new paper to push me out still needs to be mentioned." Uncle turned to Mai. "I brought the photocopy this afternoon. Just read it, don't sign anything."

After her uncle returned, Mai opened the kitchen cabinet to look for water. In the bottom drawer there is a strange set of keys, tied with a frayed red string. A small key with a plastic tag bearing the number 17. She picked it up, hearing the sound of cold metal in her palm.

“Mom, what does this open?”

Hanh stood at the door, her face suddenly whiter. “Leave it there.”

“Is it father's?”

“Mom said to leave it.”

Mai did not put it down. “Dad, do you have a closet that you don't know about?”

Hanh snatched the key from her hand. The movement was so fast that the sewing machine vibrated. "I came here to sell the house. Don't dig up your father's story anymore."

“If father's matter is related to this paper, then you must know.”

“If you know, what can you do?”

“At least don't mistakenly sell things people don't have the right to buy.”

Mother and daughter stood facing each other. Through the window, the wind blew the notice on the table. The words "land clearance" collide like the sound of an iron door.

Hanh held the key tightly. "Do you think I'm happy to sell the house? I've lived here all my life. But if I don't sell, people will sue. My medicine money, your school fees from before, the money your father left behind... there's not much left."

“What money did you leave behind?”

Hanh was silent.

Mai remembers in her first years of college, her tuition was always transferred on time, even though her mother only sewed rented clothes. She thought her father had saved it. But his father died unexpectedly after a heart attack on the way home from the commune, with no will and no account in his name. After the funeral, Hanh said they had paid off all their debt.

“Mom,” Mai said slowly, “does dad owe anyone anything?”

Hanh looked at the key, then stuffed it into her pocket. “I said.”

Uncle Sau returned when the sky turned leaden. The photocopy I brought had a folded stamp in the corner, dated six months before Mai's father passed away. The diagram shows that the backyard and kitchen are located entirely within the plot of land. But in the notice, the boundary line has been pulled diagonally across the well.

Quan came with him, carrying a measuring device and a bag of documents. He is taller than before, his hair is cut short, and there are light burns on his wrists. Mai used to ride in the back of his car to take extra classes, and said she would never return to this town. Quan did not ask if she still remembered that sentence.

“I'll take a quick look,” he said, placing the map on the table. "The boundary in the announcement is one and a half meters to the north. One and a half meters sounds small, but if it extends along the entire route, it will eat into your yard."

“Can it be fixed?”

"Correct with original documents. Do not edit with words."

He gave Mai a screenshot of the cadastral system. In the edit history line, the person updating the map is an account belonging to the Land Clearance Department. Edit time: 9 hours 17 minutes, 12 months ago.

The number 9:17 reminded Mai of the old calendar on the wall. She turned to look at it. I circled the 17th day without writing a reason.

Quan saw her eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No. It just feels familiar.”

Hanh stood behind the two of them, still holding key number 17. Uncle Sau looked at her, then said as if he had decided: "Open that cabinet tonight. Let Mai know what she's keeping."

Hanh did not object. She only closed the curtains before it was completely dark, as if afraid that outsiders would see the house's lights turning on one by one.

When Quan and Uncle Sau left, Mai put the notice in a plastic cover. She did not sign, did not call the company, nor texted the team leader. The old room was silent, except for the sound of the sewing machine making a short beep and then stopping.

Hanh took the key from her pocket and placed it on Mai's palm.

“The cupboard is under the stairs,” she said. "Your father locked it since the day he came home from the meeting. Mom has never opened it."

"Why?"

"Because he said, if one day you come back and still want to sell the house, then sell it. But if you ask for the key, it means you saw something wrong."

Mai tightened the key. Outside, the wind beat against the corrugated iron roof. The house shook very softly, like someone trying to remember a story that had been hidden for too long.

The first night back, Mai didn't call the company. She sat under the stairs, in front of a wooden door low enough for the iron cabinet behind. The number 17 is scratched on the lock. When the key is turned, a clicking sound is heard.

There is no money in the locker. There was only a blue notebook, a cassette tape, a receipt bound with an elastic band, and an envelope with her name written on it in her father's handwriting.

Mai hasn't opened the envelope yet. She heard her mother lock the door to the other room, then the footsteps stopped in the hallway.

“Mai,” Hanh called, “don't read alone.”

Mai put her hand on the envelope. “Do you want to read with me?”

There was no immediate answer. Only the wind came through the door, carrying the smell of salt and damp earth.

Finally, Hanh said: "I'm afraid that after reading this, you won't want to call me mom anymore."

Mai looked at her name. She understood, from that moment, that selling the house was no longer something that needed to be resolved with a signature.