That day, Tran Si walked alone toward the chamber long sealed by silence—the chamber of his father, the late General Tran Uy, a hero once entrusted with the defense of the borderlands, who gave his life upon the field of glory to shield the realm and throne.
Since the day he departed, the noble estate was no longer the estate it had once been; it had become a shell of solitude, heavy with the lingering fragrance of memory. His mother, broken by the cruel hand of separation, fell ill in both body and spirit. Her soul withdrew into a mist of grief and faded wrath, no longer willing to lay eyes upon anything that bore the shadow of her departed lord. And so, that room—once resounding with laughter, gentle teachings, and a father's warmth—fell into silent neglect, as if a forgotten grave upon a deserted hill.
Though the house attendants, in turn, would sweep the place every few moons, none dared touch aught within. The chamber seemed sealed not by lock alone, but by an invisible ward—woven of sorrow and reverence.
But on this day, Tran Si was no longer the youngling of yore. The passing years had honed him; no longer a boy, he stood now as a youth grown into strength, with a heart lit by the yearning to fathom his father—the hero he had revered all his life. Drawn by longing and the wish to gather shards of his father's echo from the past, Si had asked to undertake the solemn task of tending to that sacred space himself.
At his side, of course, was none other than Van—the young maid ever at his service, whom he trusted above all. Not merely for her quick wit and deft hands, but for the gentleness in her eyes—like spring water in March—that ever calmed his restless soul.
The chamber lay in the western wing of House Tran. The door of weathered wood stood before them, its lacquer flaking like autumn leaves, yet its hinges remained steadfast—like the oaths once sworn beneath its frame. Si reached into his tunic and drew forth a key of iron, now browned with rust. Gently he placed it into the lock. A soft clack sounded—a subtle note, yet it rang like a bell within his mind, stirring echoes long buried.
The door creaked open, slow and solemn. Before them stretched a world frozen in stillness, draped in dust yet not disorder. All was just as it had been on the day the man departed: a humble bed of wood, a writing desk with drawers shut tight, a shelf of scrolls in orderly rows, a wardrobe left ajar, sword racks aligned along the walls. The room bore no opulence, yet it exhaled the quiet dignity of a man of virtue—a soul steadfast, solemn, and true.
Si drew in a breath. The scent of dust, mingled with old timber and a trace of aged incense, stirred something deep within—his eyes stung with sudden salt. He turned toward Van, his gaze soft as wind across winter reeds.
"Van, pray begin with the dusting. I shall fetch water anon."
"Aye, young master," the girl answered gently, already reaching for the broom resting in the corner.
Her every motion was calm, the strokes of her hand light as drifting mist—not merely brushing dust away, but as though touching the relics of a departed soul, with utmost reverence.
Si returned from the well, bearing a large pail of water and a bundle of cloths. The task was heavy, yet his limbs were strong from years of training—first under his father's stern tutelage, later under masters and sages within the household. He moved with the grace of a horseman riding the clouds.
Returning to the chamber, he was struck by how the room had changed. The haze of dust had lightened, and Van was kneeling as she wiped the floor, her cheeks tinged rose, her hair slightly tousled by the settling dust—like a blossom of peach touched by dawn's dew.
"Well done, thou art swift indeed!" he laughed, fondness unhidden in his tone.
Van lowered her gaze, a shy blush blooming upon her cheeks like a ripe persimmon in frost. "Young master jests again... you shall make me blush to death."
Their laughter—soft, clear—rippled through the room like springwater trickling into a long-frozen pond, chasing away the lingering gloom of many years.
Moments later, Si approached a wooden chest beside the writing desk. Its hinges creaked as he lifted the lid. Within lay old tomes, a stack of sketches, and several personal keepsakes—all arranged with the care of one who meant to return.
He touched each item as if tracing the lines of time itself. The volumes on military art, statecraft, and poetry recalled to him the image of his father reading by lamplight, a furrow in his brow, his eyes aglow with ideals.
Among the sketches, one stood apart: framed in rare ebony wood, preserved with delicate precision. In it, a red-haired child played joyfully amidst green fields, beside a lady in rose-hued robes, her black tresses flowing like ink. Their eyes were as bright as lotus blooms at dawn.
Si knew them at once: it was he and his mother. The lines were somewhat crude, yet brimming with warmth. The artist's eye—his father's—had captured that moment with all the love and yearning of a man who longed to preserve what time could steal.
A tear traced down Si's cheek. Not of sorrow, but the kind that falls when a soul rediscovers a love long misplaced.
Carefully, he opened a worn booklet, its cover faintly bearing the words: Tran Uy – Class of Bamboo Branch – Year of Thượng Dương 1687.
A diary.
His father's journal from youth, penned during his days as a student at the Grand Lien Academy.
Each page bore the breath of youth—neat, though at times trembling, lines recounting the rigors of study, quarrels with masters, loyal friendships, and the aching homesickness that burned like a coal beneath winter's frost.
From between the pages, a thin paper slipped out—a poem, penned in aching verse, soaked in the sorrows of love.
" That schoolyard roof, with moss and crimson tiles,
There dwelled a girl with rosy cheeks and smiles.
So small, so fair—how sweet her gentle grace,
In evening light, I longed to see her face.
This love, unspoken, never seemed to fade,
My heart would stir with every verse I made.
I poured my soul in ink and silent song,
To weave for her a poem I've kept so long.
Three silent years, like stone, I bore my flame,
This lonely heart no voice would dare to name.
In youth, I knew not love, nor sorrow's trace,
Nor guessed that time could love's own path erase.
But none escape the fate of hearts inclined—
Must I, a boy, be left so far behind?
And once I knew, my soul began to burn,
Her eyes like morning stars at every turn.
Soft cheeks untouched by powder, pure and bright,
Red lips and ivory skin, my soul's delight.
Oh heart, be brave, and beat for her alone—
This youthful love, my secret, newly grown.
It scorched my soul, I gazed and held my breath,
To watch my muse walk by—love's quiet death.
Foolish was I to guard my love in shade,
Though feelings bloomed, I let them ever fade.
She walked nearby, yet never truly near,
Her arm in his—I watched with aching fear.
O Heavens! Why must love bring pain so deep?
Who'd know this flame I buried just to weep?
I crushed my heart into a silent song,
And sang alone where only clouds belong.
The sky and I—our sorrow knows no end,
Its silence deep, where drifting clouds descend.
A poet lone in youthful love confined,
While only skies mourn verses I designed.
The years went on in silence, long and slow,
Through spring and summer, autumn's golden glow.
Seasons turned, and still I spoke no word,
While in my soul, love's aching cry was heard.
The school bell tolled—it called another year,
Yet I resolved, I would no longer fear.
No more retreat—I'd speak my heart so true,
And tell her what I longed to say and knew.
A ray of sun fell through the rustling trees,
She passed me by, her smile a gentle breeze.
My heart leapt wild as she walked softly past,
A tender laugh… then silence came so fast.
I stood alone beneath the breathless skies,
One bird's faint call awakened all my cries.
Love burst alive—could it now bloom at last?
Or wilt away, as seasons hurry past?
Spring came and went with all its fragrant hue,
But only I still clung to love so true.
The day arrived—let Heaven bear it clear—
I told her then, my soul and all my fear.
Yet "love" alone could never quite convey,
The ocean-heart that surged in wild array.
I spoke my truth in quiet, trembling tones,
And waited still—just hoping love had grown.
But then...
The very first time love took all my will,
It broke in two—her answer struck me still.
No promises, no future shared or dreamed,
Just one word—"No"—and all my skies unseamed.
These eyes, once dry, now filled with bitter rain,
Alone I wept, and let the grief remain.
Dark clouds rolled in, and hid the light above,
Where once had bloomed a quiet, one-sided love."
Each line sang of anguish, raw and tender. Si blinked, surprised. His father—the iron general—had once pined for love, had once been a fool for a lady fair.
He laughed softly—a wistful sound, but full of warmth.
"So thou, too, wert once a lovesick youth…"
He returned all to the chest, heart still awash with memories, when behind him came Van's teasing voice:
"Is young master hiding from labor?"
Startled, Si wiped away the last trace of tears. "Nay, nay! I was but taking a moment. See—I am working still!"
Together they resumed their task, every stroke of the cloth a caress upon memory, a gesture to soothe a soul long gone. With each corner cleaned, it felt as if the room itself were being freed from the bonds of time, the silence eased by the breath of remembrance.
When at last the sun dipped low, and golden light streamed through the window like wine poured upon old stone, they stood at rest.
Si lingered a moment at the threshold, casting one final glance within. The room was no longer a tomb of grief—it had become a fragment of memory reclaimed from the dark.
"Young master, let us away now! Supper awaits, and I feel faint from hunger!" Van called, voice sweet with playful chiding.
"Wait, wait, I must lock the door," Si laughed, teasing, "If thou eatest thus evermore, none shall dare wed thee when thou growest round as a moon."
"Mean thing! I shan't speak to thee!" Van puffed her cheeks, pretending anger, though her eyes gleamed with laughter.
Si locked the door. His heart felt light—as though an old chapter had been gently closed. Yet within, he knew: this day, he had not merely said farewell to the past, but embraced once more the image of his father—vivid, loving, and near.
Two shadows slipped quietly down the corridor of House Tran, leaving behind the chamber in peaceful hush. Only the wind moved through the cracks of the wooden door, and clouds wandered slow across moss-green tiles beneath the dusk sky.