Chapter 1 — Wind and Snow Falling, Ancient People Return

Morning Mist in Mist Alley

At six o'clock in the morning, the dew in Hem Suong was still so thick that Vu Diep Khanh had to use his hand to wipe a damp streak on the glass of the flower cabinet to clearly see the light blue hydrangeas inside. This small alley separating from Xuan Huong street had a feature that no other place in the city had: the dew here always lingers longer, weaving between two rows of mossy tiled roofs, flowing slowly as if it did not want to leave. Her mother once said that in the past, people called this alley Dew Alley for that simple reason, and later she opened a flower shop right at the beginning of the alley, naming it Diep Suong - half taken from her daughter's name, half taken from the name of the alley that raised her.

Diep Khanh pulled up the rolling door, letting cold air rush in along with the damp smell of moss and newly watered soil. The flower shop opened from five thirty, but she always came half an hour earlier to clean, cut back branches, and change water in knee-high plastic buckets. At the age of twenty-eight, she was so used to this rhythm that she could do everything in the dark before dawn: her left hand held the bouquet of gladiolus flowers, her right hand cut a forty-five degree diagonal at the base of the branch, dropped it into a bucket of water mixed with a little sugar and vitamin C according to the recipe her mother left behind.

That worn brown leather-covered notebook still lay on the wooden shelf behind the counter, right next to the old, worn-out handle of pruning shears. Diep Khanh doesn't need to open it every day anymore, the recipes in there have been in her blood since she was a child following her mother to the Da Lat flower market at dawn. But sometimes, on especially foggy mornings like today, she still takes out the notebook, not to read the recipe, but to look at her mother's familiar italic handwriting, to feel like she is still standing next to her, showing her how to keep a wedding bouquet fresh for as long as possible.

Chu Thi Yen passed away two years ago. Her heart disease gradually worsened many years ago, and then one winter morning, she could no longer get up to open the shop. Diep Khanh clearly remembers the feeling of standing in the middle of an empty flower shop the next day, with trembling hands pulling up the rolling door on time like every day, because she had told her that no matter what happened, the flower shop could not close later than six o'clock, and customers who ordered wedding flowers early had to pick up the goods before the sun set.

Diep Suong's shop was not big, only enough space for a fresh flower stand, a corner displaying wedding flower samples, and a small yard behind where Diep Khanh still grows pots of wildflowers she took from the outskirts of the city. But for more than twenty years, that small flower shop has gone through countless weddings, many housewarming ceremonies, and many funeral wreaths to quietly send people away. For people around Xuan Huong street, Diep Suong is not simply a store, but a part of the street's memories, associated with the previous name Chu Thi Yen, and now Vu Diep Khanh.

She was arranging a basket of pink roses when she heard the sound of a motorbike stopping in front of the door. Not regular customers — the shop's regular customers often come after seven o'clock, when the street begins to get crowded. The man got out of the car wearing a helmet that covered most of his face, holding a file wrapped in a plastic bag to avoid the dew. He tapped lightly on the glass door frame, his voice somewhat hurried.

"Is that Ms. Diep Khanh? I'm from Van Hoa Cao Nguyen, bringing you this month's bill."

Diep Khanh frowned slightly. Van Hoa Cao Nguyen is a flower supply company that she signed a long-term contract with more than a year ago, after the shop's old flower source had problems because the garden owner in Don Duong switched to growing other types. At that time, the company representative came to the store, offered a price that was more competitive than the market, committed to delivering on time, with the right quality, and was also flexible in allowing quarterly payments instead of paying in installments. For someone who had just taken charge of the flower shop alone after her mother passed away, it was a difficult offer to refuse.

"I already received this month's invoice via email." Diep Khanh received the file, still maintaining professional politeness. "Why did you bring the paper copy over so early?"

"We changed the process, now we have to have a confirmation signature directly on the hard copy." The man looked around the shop, his gaze seemed unnatural. "Please look carefully for me, the total amount this time is a bit different from usual."

Diep Khanh opened the file right at the counter, the fluorescent light above reflected on the page. The number in the total line made her pause for a few seconds. The total was much higher than the monthly average—nearly one and a half times higher. She quickly flipped through the flower catalog, trying to compare it with the order book she kept by hand every week — a habit she kept from her mother, even though the supply company had its own electronic invoice system.

"The quantity of gladiolus here is five hundred, but last week I only received three hundred." She pointed to the data line, her voice starting to get a little tense. "What about this additional shipping fee? The contract I signed clearly stated that shipping was included in the original price."

The man scratched his head, avoiding her eyes. "I don't really understand this. I'm just the person delivering the documents. If you have any questions, please call the company and see Mr. Vuong there to resolve it."

"Who is Mr. Vuong?"

"The director next to me, Mr. Cung Vinh Vuong." He gave her a business card printed with the company name Van Hoa Cao Nguyen and the logo of a stylized light purple flower. "Just call this number, we can handle anything satisfactorily."

After the person delivering the documents left, Diep Khanh stood silently for a moment in the middle of the store, the stack of papers still in her hand, her fingertips clenched so tightly that one corner of the paper wrinkled, the smell of fresh flowers around was not enough to dispel the chills running down her spine. She flipped through old invoices neatly clipped in a separate folder, comparing each line. The more she compared, the more she realized there were strangely repeating items - the same delivery but appearing twice on two invoices in different months, inconsistent price differences between batches even though it was the same flower type and quantity.

Her hands were still shaking as she dialed Dinh Lam Tuyen, her close friend and only employee of the shop, who was on her way to work.

"Tuyen, can you come early and help me review these bills? I think something is wrong."

"Eh, what's going on? I'm almost there, wait for me ten minutes." Lam Tuyen's voice on the phone was a bit worried. She clearly knew that Diep Khanh was not someone who panicked easily. If her friend called her in that voice, it must be no small matter.

While waiting, Diep Khanh walked out to the backyard, where pots of wildflowers were waiting to be displayed in front. The dew had not yet completely dissipated, clinging to tiny drops on the purple flower petals. She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Since her mother's death, she had gotten used to handling everything herself, from bookkeeping to negotiating with suppliers, but she had never felt like the number on an invoice made her hands tremble like this.

She thought of her mother, of the years she alone ran the flower shop through many difficulties, from flowers damaged due to sudden cold to wedding seasons that were sluggish due to economic difficulties. Chu Thi Yen never let her daughter see that she was worried, always maintaining a strangely calm look when facing difficulties. "Flowers don't need to be the most beautiful, they just need to be at the right time," she often said, wanting to teach her daughter that in this profession, the important thing was not how much money or how many precious flowers there were, but knowing how to deliver the right things to the right people, at the right moment.

Diep Khanh wondered, if she were her mother, how would she handle this matter. Maybe she wouldn't be as panicked as she was right now, would sit down, make a pot of tea, then slowly call the supplier and ask for each number. But Diep Khanh knew she was not brave enough, especially when the difference in the file was so large that if she had to pay in full, she would have to sell most of the shop's little remaining working capital.

The sound of Lam Tuyen's motorbike stopping in front of the door pulled her back to reality. The girl walked in, her hair tied up high with a few drops of dew, her eyes immediately glued to the file on the counter.

"Let me see." Lam Tuyen took it, quickly flipped through each page, her eyebrows gradually furrowed. "Eh, this is really strange. Why does this month's gladiolus count five hundred branches, while our import book records three hundred?"

"That's right, I feel the same way as you." Diep Khanh rubbed his cold hands together. "There are other additional fees, the contract does not state these."

The two of them sat down at a small table next to the counter, laying out all the old bills to compare. The more you flip, the more irregularities you see. Some months the data matches Diep Khanh's notebook completely, some months it's confusingly different, as if someone deliberately chose the time to sneak in small amounts, enough not to immediately attract attention but enough to add up to a large number over time.

"Do you remember when you signed the contract, what was the name of the representative there?" Lam Tuyen asked, his voice starting to become more serious.

Diep Khanh tried to remember the meeting more than a year ago, when the flower shop was in its most difficult period after the old supply broke down. A politely dressed, well-spoken woman came to the store to introduce Van Hoa Cao Nguyen and offered terms that sounded very reasonable at the time. But the official signatory on the contract was a different name — Cung Vinh Vuong, the company's director, whom Diep Khanh has never met in person since.

"The original introducer was a lady named... let me recall." Diep Khanh frowned, trying to recall his memory. "It seems like Tram's name is something, but she said she was just an acquaintance, not named in the contract."

"Weird." Lam Tuyen tapped her fingers on the table, her eyes sharpened. "What are you going to do now? Call the company directly and ask to figure it out?"

Diep Khanh looked out the glass window, the fog had begun to dissipate, gradually revealing the ancient roofs across the alley, and further away, construction scaffolding had been erected along Xuan Huong Street a few weeks ago, preparing for some embellishment project that she had only vaguely heard about on local news. Little did she know that, in just a few days, amidst those scaffoldings, she would encounter someone she had tried to forget for five years.

"I will call." She said, trying to keep her voice steady, even though her heart was still chaotic. "No matter what, I have to ask clearly, I can't let them charge me like that. This store belongs to my mother, I can't let it get into trouble because of a vague invoice."

Lam Tuyen put his hand on your shoulder, didn't say anything more, just nodded as an affirmation that he would always be by your side. Outside, the bell of the baker's bicycle rang out in the alley, signaling that a new day had truly begun, although in Diep Khanh's heart, the fog seemed to not only be on the street, but had crept into her mind, vague and full of uncertainty.

She didn't know that the business card printed with the light purple flower logo she had just put in a drawer was just the first brick of a wall that someone was building around her life, brick by brick, patiently and coldly, and that the familiar street out there, where the sound of drills was echoing every morning, was about to bring back someone who could break that wall — or tighten it more than ever.