Bao has long forgotten the joy of writing, which used to make him excited every day. Now, each click of the mouse is just a sentence for a dry soul.
The sound of motorbike engines echoed from the narrow alley, where the houses were close together with moss-covered walls. That alley, where he grew up, used to be the stage for everyday stories, laughter, and even the silent pain of the Covid-19 pandemic. Bao had recorded it all, during his days as a poor student with a dream of writing. Now, in the heart of the bustling city, he found himself stuck.
One rainy afternoon, Bao closed his laptop and left the room. His heart was empty, aimless like the raindrops falling on the roof. The familiar coffee shop. The steady dripping sound of coffee was like an invisible comfort, filling the quiet space around Bao. In front of the laptop screen, he seemed to be stuck with each line of text. Ideas came slowly, and when they appeared on the page, they were just empty, dry lines. He tried to recall stories from the past, about people, narrow street corners, and children who used to play. But everything was still vague, as if Bao was lost in his own memories.
A sense of failure overwhelmed him. Had he lost the ability to write? He feared that his passion for writing would now be reduced to regret and nostalgia.
Bao looked up in surprise when he heard Hung's voice, his old college friend. Hung is now the owner of a famous coffee shop chain and several high-profile real estate projects. The half-joking, half-serious smile on Hung's lips seemed to contain a hidden challenge.
“What are you doing, Bao?” Hung asked, his voice soft but full of hidden meaning. “Still writing that nonsense? Why not make money from it?”
The words seemed to pierce Bao's heart. He suddenly realized how big the gap between him and Hung was now. Hung had succeeded in a way that many people admired, while Bao was still lost in the pages of writing that he himself began to doubt.
Bao did not answer. His thoughts turned to the child from the northwestern village he had met on his previous volunteer trip. The boy, his eyes filled with sadness, was still etched in Bao’s mind. He recalled the image of the child standing on the flood bank, looking at the empty space where his home used to be. The boy said nothing, but his eyes said it all. Pain, loss, and something even stronger—a fragile hope.
Bao stood up, his eyes briefly glancing at Hung. He didn't want to prolong the meaningless conversation. "I have some work to do, I'll go home first," Bao said, his voice light.
Bao did not know why he chose to return to this village. Maybe it was because of memories, maybe it was because of nostalgia for a place that he had never really belonged to. But when the car stopped, the dust on the windshield reflected a strange world . The village was no longer what Bao had imagined.
The village road, once narrow but lovely, was now washed away by the flood. Mud covered the alleys, like a mottled, gray-brown painting of desolation. Bao walked slowly, his feet sinking deep into the mud, leaving unwanted footprints. The remaining rickety houses seemed to be waiting for their final collapse.
The children he once promised to give books to, but who can remember those empty promises now? They are older, no longer innocent, no longer the children in Bao's memory. Their eyes are a mixture of old hope and current disappointment. Looking at them, Bao wonders: is he the only one who has changed? Or is it the world that has been transformed, silently but extremely cruelly, pushing everything into the vortex of time that no one can resist.
This reality is not what Bao is looking for. Perhaps that is why he cannot find inspiration here. Inspiration is just an illusion. It does not exist in the dilapidated houses, in the tired eyes, in the mud covering the village roads. But Bao is still here, like a lost person, not knowing what has pulled him back, only knowing that this place, in its desolation and harshness, is reflecting himself.
In the misty morning mist, Bao handed out gifts to the children. As Bao bent down to hand the gift to a boy, the boy's eyes met his own, clear but carrying something profound.
"Will you come back?" The question rang out, gentle but it pierced deep into Bao's heart. Bao stood still for a long time. The promise was easy to say, but would he really come back? In the boy's waiting eyes, Bao saw both longing and something like a glimmer of hope, small but clear.
He nodded, but something weighed heavily on his heart. Would he really come back after this? Or was that promise just one of those promises that drifted away in the mist, disappearing when the sun rose?
Bao realized that his efforts were not in vain, but he could not be a hero to save the world. He was only a small part of this world, and the most important thing was not what he could do for others, but how he connected with them.
Back in the city, Bao no longer felt like a failure. He sat in front of his laptop screen and started writing again. He wrote about the things he saw, the little stories, the innocent broken lives that deserved to be loved.
And as Bao writes, he realizes what he has long forgotten: Writing is not about success or salvation. It is a way for him to find himself again, to connect with the people around him and with the world he has missed.
Outside, the sound of motorbike engines still echoed from the small alley, blending into the daily rhythm of the city. But in Bao's heart, he no longer felt lost.
***
The drizzle fell gently, clinging to Bao's hair and shirt. The cold feeling seeped into his skin, but Bao's heart felt warm. He looked around, saw the shy smiles of the children, but also realized there were scrutinizing eyes, as if asking the question: "What are they here for?".
A man from the village approached Bao. He looked at the pile of clothes, books, rice, instant noodles… piled up on the cart, then looked up at Bao, his face not very sympathetic. “Again, those people who want to show off, want to be famous…”, he said coldly. His voice was heavy, as if soaked in the bitterness of life.
Bao looked at the old man. He had met many people like that on his previous volunteer trips, people who couldn’t believe that kindness could come from the heart, instead of being recognized or praised. A flashback suddenly appeared in Bao’s mind, of the first time he and his mother went to deliver gifts at an orphanage. The image of the children’s eyes shining as they received the gifts made him happier than any compliment.
Bao has learned to be quiet and act instead of arguing. For Bao, there is no need to explain too much, no need to prove himself. What he does is for his younger siblings in the remote village, not to convince skeptics.
That afternoon, Bao and the volunteer group began distributing gifts to the households in the village. Each bag of rice, each notebook, each warm coat was handed out. The children happily received the gifts, while some of the parents were happy, some quietly put the gifts away without saying anything. The man from the morning stood far away, his eyes still full of doubt. For a moment, Bao caught the eyes of a little girl, her eyes clear and full of hope. He suddenly thought, those eyes were the reason for him to continue.
It suddenly started to rain heavily. The rain poured down like a torrential downpour, but the volunteer group did not stop. The villagers hurried home, but he remained standing there, his eyes cold but somewhat softer. Finally, the old man approached Bao again, his tone like a final challenge: "Are you doing these things... really for the children? That kind of tarpaulin... is hateful."
Bao remained calm, looking at the man. Under the faint light of the rain, Bao smiled lightly. "You can think whatever you want. But for us, seeing the children smile, seeing people suffer less, is enough."
The old man was silent. A tense space stretched between the two strangers. At this moment, it seemed like Bao and the man were testing each other. The rain was still falling! Bao still stood there, not hesitating in the face of doubts. Then, he turned and walked away, leaving behind a feeling as if the rain had washed away some of his doubts.
A week after that trip, a video clip of Bao giving gifts to people suddenly went viral on social media, along with sarcastic comments that Bao was "pretentious" and "just wanted to be famous." Those baseless criticisms spread like wildfire.
Bao's friends and colleagues were all excited, everyone was worried about Bao. A close friend of Bao's called that night, his voice full of worry: "Bao, did you see the video? You have to do something to correct it!". Bao calmly replied: "I know, but it's okay."
Rumors continued to spread, and some people even began investigating the source of the donations Bao and his volunteer group received. One day, while Bao was preparing for his next volunteer trip, a reporter unexpectedly came to Bao's house.
“… We want to find out the truth about your charitable activities. Can you explain clearly?”.
Bao smiled, invited the reporter to sit down and slowly replied: "You can check all the relevant documents and statements yourself. We have nothing to hide. But I also want to make it clear that I do not do these things to be recognized...".
Several months later, Bao received a letter postmarked after his story had died down. The sender was the man from the remote village he had met that rainy day.
That night, Bao opened his laptop and continued writing. He wrote about the children with bright eyes, about the rain falling on the old roof, about Mrs. Sau - the mother who taught Bao how to give without expecting anything in return. The words flowed from Bao's heart, like a clear stream after the rain.
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/duoi-mua-truyen-ngan-du-thi-cua-cao-minh-teo-185241015114418482.htm
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