A damp, earthy scent from the dew-soaked forest drifted through the cracks in the wooden door. In the small guest room, Quyen lay awake, her eyes wide open, staring at the flickering oil lamp suspended from the ceiling. The faint yellow light was weak, casting trembling shadows that made everything in the room seem uncertain, blurred—much like the tangled thoughts that ensnared her mind.
The simple wooden bed creaked with her every restless movement. The thin blanket she pulled over herself was not enough to ward off the biting cold of the highland night, but it wasn't the familiar chill that kept her awake. An invisible weight was pressing on her chest, making it difficult to breathe, as if each breath had to force its way through memories too painful to erase.
Outside, the towering cliffs were swallowed by an inky blackness. The incessant chirping of insects echoed from a distance, a monotonous chorus that circled without end. Occasionally, a strong gust of wind would shriek through the leaves, rustling the entire forest before falling silent again, leaving behind a silence so profound it was suffocating. Quyen sighed softly and laid a hand on her forehead as her mind slowly drifted into the past. Vague yet sharp images appeared one by one, like a faded old film replaying moments she had tried to bury.
That year, Ngoc gave birth to baby Son in a shabby delivery room, perched halfway up a mountain in a remote district. The local clinic was so small and poorly equipped that it had only a single, worn-out delivery bed, a tray of rusted instruments, and a few plastic chairs for family members. That day, a drizzling rain fell, and a cold wind whistled through the ill-fitting window frames. The strong smell of disinfectant filled the air, mingling with the musty dampness of old blankets and pillows, creating a dry, suffocating atmosphere, as if the space itself were bearing down on the people within.
Ngoc went into labor suddenly, with no time to be transferred to the larger district medical center. In a panic, Quyen and Thanh had rushed her to this small clinic, where Doctor Tuoi was on duty. Doctor Tuoi—a name that sounded as lovely as she was—was a petite woman with a kind face, well-known in the region for her willingness to travel to the mountains to deliver babies for poor families. The locals spoke of her with reverence, as if she were not just a physician, but a companion, a rare light in this harsh land.
That night, the delivery room was lit by the dim, yellow glow of an old lightbulb, which only made the space feel gloomier. Quyen remembered every detail: Ngoc writhing on the delivery bed, drenched in sweat, her trembling hands clutching the torn bedsheet. Her soft moans blended with the patter of rain on the tin roof, creating a long, painful rhythm. Thanh stood beside her, his hands clenched, his eyes red and frantic, as if he were facing something beyond his endurance. He kept repeating meaningless phrases, "You can do it, Ngoc… you can do it…," but his voice was strained, unable to hide his helplessness.
Quyen sat on the edge of the bed, holding Ngoc's cold hand, constantly encouraging her. "You're almost there, sister, I'm here with you." But in her heart, a nameless anxiety was swelling. She wasn't a doctor, she knew nothing about childbirth; she could only watch Ngoc in agony and pray that it would all be over soon. Doctor Tuoi, with a calm demeanor, moved back and forth between the instrument tray and the delivery bed, her voice gentle but firm. "Stay calm, Ngoc, breathe deeply, follow my lead." Her professionalism brought Quyen a small measure of comfort.
Then, amidst the overwhelming tension, a tiny, piercing cry broke the suffocating atmosphere. Baby Son was born.
In that moment, tears streamed down Quyen's face, whether from emotion or relief, she couldn't tell. She watched Doctor Tuoi receive the small, red infant, her own eyes sparkling with joy, her smile as radiant as a rare ray of sunshine in a storm. "He's so handsome. Congratulations. I'm sure this little boy will be chubby and strong," she said, her voice as gentle as if she were cooing to a little angel. Ngoc, though exhausted, managed a weak smile, her eyes clouded with fatigue but glinting with a fragile happiness. Thanh shakily took his son, his face alight with pride, as if all his worries had just vanished.
The image was seared into Quyen's mind. She felt as if she had witnessed a miracle, a small life emerging amidst countless hardships. Her heart filled with gratitude for Doctor Tuoi—the petite woman full of compassion, who had brought light to Thanh and Ngoc's family in their most vulnerable moment.
Lying in the cold guest room, Quyen closed her eyes, but the images refused to fade. The chirping of the insects outside was a persistent drone, pulling her back to the present, only to push her again into the hidden corners of her memory. The night was too long, and the thoughts in her heart grew ever more tangled.
She began to remember the days after Son was born, when she still held Doctor Tuoi in high esteem. To her, Tuoi was a symbol of dedication, a woman who dared to forsake a comfortable life to serve a poor, remote region. But then, whispers from the locals began to catch her attention. At first, they were just vague stories, hushed conversations, but over time, they grew into blatant, sharp rumors that cut like the cold wind.
Tuoi, it turned out, was not merely a dedicated doctor. She was the wife of a district official, "graciously" appointed to this clinic as a convenient post for personal gain. On the surface, Tuoi was always gentle and likable, with a sweet smile and a sugary voice that easily won over patients and colleagues. But beneath that facade was a chilling indifference, a heart that seemed to have grown calloused to the tragedies of others.
Quyen gradually realized that Tuoi had been using her medical expertise to profit from "menstrual regulations"—a euphemism for abortions. Most of those who sought her out were poor women, girls who had made a mistake, or young mothers not ready for another child. They were swayed by her persuasive words, cloaked in "professional ethics": "It's simple, safe, and discreet. Like a long period, that's all. If you wait, it becomes more complicated, more dangerous. You're both still young, with your careers ahead of you. It would be risky to keep this child." The words, sugar-coated and logical, left no room for argument. And so, they paid her exorbitant fees in exchange for a temporary peace of mind, though the real cost was sometimes a wound that would never heal.
Quyen had witnessed it once with her own eyes. She had gone to the clinic to get some fever medicine for a student. As she entered the courtyard, she saw a young pregnant woman, her face pale, sitting hunched over on a wooden bench. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, her trembling hands gripping the edge of the bench as if to hold on to her last bit of strength. Her husband, a man with the weary look of a laborer, nervously pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, carefully placed them in an envelope, and offered it with both hands. "Thank you, Doctor… thank you for helping us…" his voice trailed off, like someone who had just lost something priceless.
Quyen froze, her heart tightening. She saw Tuoi—still with that same placid expression, her eyes indifferent, without a flicker of emotion. It was as if she had grown so accustomed to such scenes that the suffering of others was just part of her job. But when Tuoi's eyes met Quyen's, she instantly produced a charming smile, her voice light and airy as if nothing had happened. "Hello, teacher. Are you here to visit someone?"
That single sentence, that single smile, sent a shiver down Quyen's spine. She felt the stark, cold hypocrisy of it all, sharp as a mountain wind on a winter's night. How could someone switch from detached indifference to gentle kindness so quickly? How could the same person who had welcomed baby Son with such a radiant smile be so unmoved by the loss of a life not yet formed?
She wanted to speak up, to ask Tuoi if she ever thought about what she was doing. But in the end, she only nodded silently, got the medicine, and left. Who was she to interfere? A teacher in a remote outpost, an outsider. How could she confront such a sensitive issue? In these remote mountains, everyone had their own role to play, and Quyen told herself she had no right to judge.
But the truth, like a cold wind, could not be buried forever.
The most painful memory resurfaced when Quyen recalled the day Ngoc announced she was pregnant for the second time. Baby Son was just a year old then, babbling "ma-ma" and "ba-ba," his small feet just beginning to take their first wobbly steps. Children grew as fast as bamboo shoots, but they also brought a financial burden that weighed more heavily each day on Thanh and Ngoc. The salary for teachers in remote areas was meager, barely enough to cover basic needs. The cost of diapers, milk, and medicine for their son, combined with living expenses and helping their families back home, kept their small house in a constant state of want. The wooden walls had rotted in places, and the tin roof was rusted, but they couldn't afford repairs.
That day, Ngoc had called Quyen over, her face ashen, her hands twisting the hem of her shirt as if trying to hold on to some fragile sense of calm. "Sister, I… I'm pregnant again," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes red and on the verge of tears. Quyen was stunned into silence. "Oh God, why weren't you more careful?" she blurted out, but immediately regretted it. That was not the comfort Ngoc needed.
Thanh sat beside her, his head bowed, his hands clasped together nervously. He spoke softly, almost to himself, "We… were careless. We never wanted this to happen. But our son is still so young. We don't have enough to get by as it is. If we have another child, how long can we manage?"
The question hung in the air, unanswerable. Quyen looked at Ngoc—the sister of her heart—and Thanh—the man carrying his small family on his shoulders. In their eyes, she saw anxiety and the agony of being torn between love and the pressures of survival. Sometimes, life cornered people with no perfect choices.
Quyen wanted to say something, to offer some comfort, but her throat felt tight. She knew they were not irresponsible parents. They loved Son, and they surely loved the child who was not yet formed. But the harsh reality—a dilapidated house, a meager salary, and an uncertain future—terrified them. Quyen felt her own helplessness, as if she were facing a wall too high to climb.
Their final decision was a "menstrual regulation." And it was Doctor Tuoi who gave the consultation.
With that same syrupy-sweet voice, Tuoi skillfully reassured them: "It's just a simple procedure, very gentle and safe. Think of it as a prolonged period. The longer you wait, the more difficult it becomes, and the higher the risk of complications. You're both still young, with your careers ahead of you. Your finances are tight. Keeping this child would be a great risk." Her words were a verdict wrapped in sugar, so logical that they were impossible to refute.
Thanh and Ngoc, in their confusion and distress, followed her advice. Quyen, from beginning to end, felt a sense of indescribable unease. A vague intuition warned her that this was not just a decision about finances or livelihood. This was a choice that would leave a wound—not just on the body, but on the soul. She wanted to intervene, to take Ngoc's hand and say, "Sister, don't do it." But beset by her own worries—the heavy workload at school, her struggling students, her aging mother back home—she stepped back.
My work here is already so demanding. The students lack so much, the classes are large, and the lesson plans are piling up. Thanh and Ngoc's situation… it's better to let them decide for themselves, she reasoned. And so, she chose silence.
For the first time in her life, Quyen realized that silence could be a form of complicity.
That evening, when Thanh brought Ngoc home, Quyen was already there. A single glance was all it took for her to understand. Ngoc collapsed onto the bed, her face a pale, exhausted mask. Her eyes were dull, occasionally blinking as if trying to stay awake, but then they would drift shut. Her face was ashen, drained of all life. Thanh stood beside her, his movements clumsy, his own face pale with worry. He watched his wife constantly, as if afraid she would fall apart if he looked away.
They never used the word "abortion." They called it a "menstrual regulation," as if the term could lessen the weight in their hearts, as if avoiding the truth would make the pain disappear. But reality was never so simple. Quyen saw the emptiness in Ngoc's eyes, the anxiety in Thanh's every gesture, and she knew they were trying to hide a wound too deep to name.
That night, Ngoc's fever spiked. She lay in a delirium, her body shaking in waves, tears streaming from her eyes as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she would cry out, sometimes she would moan, her hands clutching the blanket as if trying to hold onto something she had just lost. Baby Son wailed for his mother, his persistent cries echoing through the small house, but Ngoc couldn't soothe him. She had no strength left.
Quyen sat by her side, holding her hand, her own heart aching. She wanted to do something, anything, to ease her friend's pain, but she was powerless. Thanh quietly warmed up some water, spoon-feeding his wife thin porridge, but his eyes were heavy with a burden that suggested he, too, was enduring a storm within.
That night, amidst the cries of a baby and the whistling of the wind through the door, Quyen felt the profound fragility of human beings faced with life's cruel choices. She asked herself: If I had spoken up, if I had tried to stop them, would things have been different? But the question only deepened her sorrow, because she knew there was no answer that could bring any comfort.
The next morning, Ngoc awoke, but her eyes had changed. The radiance of a young mother was gone, replaced by a deep sadness, as if a part of her soul had been taken away. Thanh tried to care for his wife, but his clumsiness only highlighted the pain they both carried. Baby Son, innocent in his father's arms, babbled his meaningless sounds, unaware that his small family had just suffered a loss that could not be spoken.
Quyen returned to school, but her mind could not leave that little house. She stood before her class, looking at the smudged faces and clear eyes of her students, and wondered: Do these children know that their lives, and the lives of their parents, are constantly weighed down by choices no one ever wants to make? She thought of Doctor Tuoi, of her artificial smile, and felt a quiet anger rise within her. But the anger was quickly extinguished by her own sense of powerlessness. She had no right, no power, to change anything.
In the days that followed, Ngoc slowly recovered, but she was no longer herself. Her smiles were forced, her gaze often distant, as if searching for something lost. Thanh tried to make up for it by being more attentive to his wife and son, but the silence between them grew thicker, an invisible wall separating them.
Quyen, in her role as a best friend, tried to be there for Ngoc, but every time she looked into her eyes, she saw a reflection of the silence she herself had chosen. She blamed herself, but then consoled herself with the thought that she could have done nothing differently. Life in the highlands was too harsh, and everyone had to face their own storms alone.
Returning to the present, Quyen lay in the guest room, listening to the chirping of insects and the wind blowing through the cracks in the door. The night was still long, and her heart was still heavy. The memories of Ngoc, Thanh, and Doctor Tuoi kept replaying in her mind, like an undercurrent that would never be still. She asked herself: Was her silence a sin? Was there anything she could have done to change what had happened?
She closed her eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to her like mist on the mountainside. She thought of baby Son, of his innocent eyes, and wondered if he would ever know about the sibling he never met. She thought of Ngoc, of the invisible wounds she carried, and her heart ached anew.
Outside, the wind still blew, carrying the chill of the highland night. But inside the small room, a small flame flickered in Quyen's heart—a flame of guilt, of unanswered questions, and of a vague resolution that she would not let that silence be repeated. She didn't know what she could do, but she knew she could not continue to stand on the sidelines, watching the people she loved break under the weight of heartbreaking choices.
She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs, as if to wake herself up. Tomorrow, she would go back to Thanh and Ngoc's house, take Ngoc's hand, and tell her that she was still here, that they were still a family. And perhaps, in that moment, she would find the answer to the questions screaming inside her.
The highland night passed slowly, but in Quyen's heart, a small light had begun to glow, like a faint but persistent oil lamp, guiding her through the darkness.