Where the mute woman lived, even the crowing of a rooster sounded desolate and mournful. The children from the neighboring village would remain silent whenever they passed the Mù U slope, fearing that if they made any noise, the "tree spirit" on the slope would jump out and drag them into the bushes. They all walked with their heads down, afraid that a single misstep would send them tumbling into the low-lying fields, and there would be no one there to pull them out. During harvest season, only occasionally would a dove visit, cooing a few times to call its mate before flapping its wings and flying off to the other side of the field.

The mute woman's shack was tiny, but her front yard was spacious. On the yard, she had a shelf made of rickety wooden planks, displaying a jumble of odds and ends: candies, medicated oil, cigarettes… sometimes a few bunches of vegetables she grew in her garden or some gourds shriveled from bee stings. She had everything anyone needed, from needles and thread to liters of kerosene, vinegar, and sugar… Most of the villagers lived on the other side of the slope, and only rarely did anyone stop by her when passing by.

The only sounds on the Mù U slope are the footsteps of people when the market opens in the early morning. The makeshift market on the other side of the slope is sparse, with only a few stalls covered with moldy tarpaulins. To go to the market, people from the neighboring village often cross this slope to avoid the much longer main road. Sometimes they stop at the old woman's stall for a cup of tea or to escape the sun. Whenever a customer comes by, the mute old woman is very happy; she hurries to bring chairs for them and prepare drinks. In the hot summer, when customers are sweating profusely, she takes her palm-leaf fan and gently fans them. When the market closes, the Mù U slope becomes deserted again, and only a few scattered rays of sunlight dance and disappear into the afternoon sun at her stall.

The mute woman lived there silently for so many years that the villagers no longer remember, only recalling that flood season when, at night, the river suddenly rose, submerging more than half of the village gate. The next morning, when the water receded, the villagers saw a woman lying face down by the roadside, still wearing a cloth bag. Thinking she was dead, they carried her to the village square to await burial. Unexpectedly, she was still clinging to life, and the next day she sat up and ate a bowl of porridge. The woman was conscious but could only utter muffled sounds, unable to speak. The villagers gathered at the village square to see the beautiful woman who had drifted ashore from an unknown place. She didn't speak, only wrote her name on the ground and asked to stay there because her family was gone, and her house had been swept away by the flood. Out of compassion, the villagers built her a small hut on the slope of Mu U. The children in the village didn't dare go there at night, spreading rumors that there were many will-o'-the-wisps at the foot of Mu U slope, flickering in the low-lying fields at night.

Cải's house was also on the slope of Mù U, separated from the mute woman's house by a large garden. Whenever her parents went to the fields, Cải would sneak over to the mute woman's house, peeking through the fence. Each time, she would stand peeking through the door, waiting for the mute woman to come out and take her hand. Usually, she didn't have to wait long; as soon as the mute woman saw Cải, whether she was picking tea leaves, braising fish, or mending a bib, she would stop what she was doing, stand up, and lead Cải inside, letting her sit on the bamboo bench near the fire. Cải was just waiting for that; she would obediently sit cross-legged on the bench, watching the mute woman busy herself with the bottles and jars of candy, wine, and cigarettes. Her mother said that when the mute woman was young, she was very beautiful. After the flood, many men in the village asked her to be their wife, but she only shook her head and remained single. Even now, her face is still beautiful, discreet, and charming. She is tall and slender, and her movements are graceful and gentle; she looks quite different from the other hardworking old women in the village.

In the summer, the mute woman only wore a bodice. A chestnut-colored bodice and long black silk trousers. Sitting on the porch combing her hair, she looked like she had just stepped out of a fairy tale. Besides the miscellaneous items displayed on the shelves, her possessions consisted only of an old wooden cupboard, a bamboo bed, and a three-legged cooking stand. By the stove, there was always a tiny pot of rice and a small pot of dried fish stew, which she cooked over and over again until it shriveled up. Day after day, Cai saw that her grandmother's food was just that.

Every time Cai came by, the old woman would hold her hand for a long time, caressing and massaging it before bringing it to her nose to inhale its scent. Cai's maternal grandmother had died when she was still in her mother's womb, so she loved her mute grandmother very much. She sat quietly, gazing with her bright black eyes at the jars of sticky rice candy and coconut candy. After inhaling the scent of her hand, the old woman would hurried to the shelf, trembling, open the lid of the coconut candy jar, and give her a few pieces. While she was at it, she would also pick a ripe banana from the bunch hanging in front of the shop.

Afternoon. The Mu U slope was deserted. The mute woman sat leisurely mending a shirt. In the distance, the sound of roosters crowing at midday could be heard, punctuated by the occasional clatter of an ox cart. This afternoon, Cai hadn't come to play, so she quietly prepared her needle and thread to mend and mend to pass the time. The gourd vines in front of the house were out of season, leaving only dry leaves rustling on the porch. She stopped sewing, stood up, and patted her aching back before taking out her coconut fiber broom to sweep the leaves, just in case Cai ran past and crushed them into dust. After sweeping, she leaned on the broom and looked towards Cai's house. The other side of the fence was quiet; perhaps Cai had gone down to the village to play with the other children. A gentle breeze carried a pungent, burnt smell. She thought, "Surely her father is clearing the garden and burning leaves again," and bent down to gather the remaining dry leaves into a corner, waiting until dusk to burn them to ward off mosquitoes. The pungent smell from Cai's house grew stronger and stronger, so she stopped sewing, lifted the fence, and peeked through to see what was happening.

In the garden, Lu the dog was running around the yard with its tail curled up, wagging its tail and whimpering as if to signal that something was wrong at home. A plume of smoke billowed from inside Cai's house. Before she could understand what was happening, Lu ran up and scratched at her legs, yelping. She suddenly realized, "Oh no, Cai's mother went to the fields and forgot to put out the fire!" She rushed into the house; it was filled with smoke, and the fire had already spread to the roof and the backyard, blazing fiercely. She frantically grabbed a bucket of water and threw it at the fire, but it was too late; the flames were raging. In her panic, she suddenly heard a scream.

"Save my child!"

Hearing Cai's voice, the old woman froze. It turned out Cai was inside the house. Grabbing a blanket from the corner of the bed, she rushed towards Cai. Through the thick smoke, she saw her huddled, her face expressionless. She quickly covered her with the blanket and carried her outside. By then, the fire had engulfed them on all sides. Exhausted, she collapsed, but still wrapped Cai tightly in the blanket, lying on top of her to shield her. The flames spread to the two of them, scorching them. She could only utter a muffled "help... help..." before passing out.

The villagers rushed over, and the fire was quickly extinguished. Cai's house was burned to the ground, reduced to rubble. They found the mute woman's body lying face down by the door, and in her arms, Cai, blackened by smoke and with her hair singed, lay there. She was terrified but couldn't cry or utter a word.

***

Cai sat on the hardened brick floor, the same spot where, before it was demolished, the mute woman's hut stood. She gazed listlessly at the egrets fluttering across the fields nearby, and nearby, a few skinny cows lay sheltering from the sun, slowly chewing grass under the trees. Only a few scattered rays of sunlight remained in the garden beneath the late-season gourd vines. A gentle afternoon breeze stirred the strands of hair matted to her forehead. Perhaps the wind was sad, lonely too. Just recently, this brick courtyard had been a small shop where the mute woman used to comb her hair on summer afternoons.

In the distance, the sound of roosters crowing could be heard. The fire from that day had burned away the grass in the garden, the low-lying patch of earth now hollowed out, and the tiny, fragile wildflowers that survived were trembling gently. Cai remembered the mute woman again. Until her death, no one in the village knew her name, only a faded black-and-white photograph, the only one found in the bag she carried when she drifted to the village. In the picture was a young couple; the woman's face was radiant, cradling a baby nestled beside her husband—the mute woman from long ago. The villagers buried the mute woman at the foot of Mu U slope, where she had come and lived for decades. The slope remains mournful to this day.

Avoiding the memories of the tragic days gone by, Cai's parents decided to move into the village. One day, she overheard her parents discussing their plan to bring the mute woman's grave back to their garden to keep her warm after a year. Every time she came home from school, passing by the Mu U slope, Cai would stop by the mute woman's grave. She would quietly pull weeds, whispering stories about home and school to her. Looking at the scattered Mu U fruits around the grave, tears welled up in her eyes as she remembered: the tiny pot of rice, the shriveled dried fish, the sticky candy, and even her grandmother's gnarled hands holding hers...

The villagers still talk about the mute woman to this day. Cai, however, is the only one in the village who heard her voice in her final moments – the voice of a woman who lived a life of silence. Whenever she passes the Mu U slope, seeing the melancholic sunlight gently swaying in the rustling wind, Cai imagines the mute woman's footsteps approaching, combing her tangled hair. Her eyes well up with tears…

Vu Ngoc Giao