The wind blows across the porch.

A drizzle had been falling for several days. Tiny raindrops settled on the mossy eaves, then slowly trickled down the cracks in the wall. Under the eaves, Mr. Thu sat at a dark, polished wooden table, gazing at the shards of glass lying silently on the surface. They were transparent and sharp, like scratches that cut into his heart whenever he recalled memories of his only son.

Having worked as a clock repairman for fifty years, Mr. Thu was familiar with the world of tiny gears and springs as thin as silk. His craftsmanship was legendary in the neighborhood. People called him "the guardian of the old town's rhythm." Yet now, before the shattered pieces of the wind chime, those hands trembled, out of sync like a worn-out spring mechanism.

The bell was a gift his son sent from a distant coastal region. In that package, his son's hurried handwriting read: "Dad, I bought this at the island market. They say its sound can summon a gentle breeze home. I miss you." Throughout the long nights that followed, that delicate tinkling sound became the rhythm of the house, warming his heart amidst the surrounding silence.

Then a storm came, sweeping away all news from the ocean. The messages grew shorter and shorter, from "contact lost" to "searching," and finally, only a vast expanse of silence remained. Mr. Thu didn't cry. He just sat there, listening to the wind rustling through the glass, imagining it was his son whispering stories of the big waves.

Many people came to visit him, some sadly advising him not to try to turn back the clock, because some periods of time, once gone, are gone forever. But how could a man who had spent his whole life repairing old things like him bear to see a hope shattered without trying to mend it? He believed that as long as that tinkling sound continued to resonate, his son would not be lost in the vast ocean.

- Sir, can this... be saved?

A soft voice pulled him back to reality. Củi stood there, the shoe-shining box on his shoulder still soaked with rainwater. Củi held out his broken glasses, his eyes looking at him with a mixture of caution and naive trust. The orphaned boy often wandered the market, living off the pennies from selling dusty shoes.

Mr. Thu looked up. His face was deeply etched with wrinkles, but his eyes still shone with the gaze of a skilled craftsman. He nodded slightly:

- Sit down, child. Leave it there; you can come and get it tomorrow.

From then on, his porch became less desolate. He didn't give Củi money; instead, he gave the boy a shelter from the rain and sun and taught him how to revive seemingly discarded items. He said, "In this life, anything that breaks can always find another way to continue existing, as long as you don't give up at the first crack."

Củi listened attentively, but perhaps because he was still young, he couldn't quite grasp it. Củi only found it strange that his grandfather kept diligently working with the pile of broken glass, trying different kinds of glue and adhesive, yet they remained stubborn and wouldn't fit together. On some nights, Củi saw his grandfather's shadow stretch long on the wall, his shoulders trembling as a piece of glass fell off midway through the gluing process.

"Grandpa, it's broken like this, why do you keep trying to fix it?" asked Cui when he saw his grandfather fail once again.

Mr. Thu stopped what he was doing, his eyes fixed on the rain.

- This is a little bit of warmth that his son sent back. Hearing the bell, he hears conversations, like in the old days...

Then he told stories about his son, about the boy who used to curiously take apart pendulum clocks, about his dreams of conquering distant sea voyages, and about the regret of a father who only knew how to keep the clock hands moving, forgetting to cherish the time he spent with his son.

***

That night, a fierce storm arose. A strong gust of wind lashed against the attic porch, tossing the glass bell that he had painstakingly reassembled. A dry, cracking sound echoed amidst the thunder.

Mr. Thu rushed out, his aged hands fumbling in the darkness. His heart ached. The shards of glass were now shattered into tiny fragments like white salt. Mr. Thu knelt down, his trembling hands groping around. He picked them up in vain, letting the sharp edges cut into his flesh. The pain in his hands was nothing compared to the shattering feeling in his chest.

"There's nothing left now..." he thought to himself. For the first time, the old craftsman wept aloud. The cry of someone who suddenly realized he could not change his destiny.

For the next three days, his door remained tightly shut. He lay there, ignoring his festering wound, letting himself drift into the void of despair. On the afternoon of the fourth day, a strange sound echoed from under the porch.

Clang... clang... *clank*... clang...

The sound that emanated was not as clear as glass, but duller, heavier, yet it carried the weight of life. Mr. Thu struggled to his feet, his weary steps leading him towards the setting sun.

Củi was fumbling around on a wooden chair, hanging a "strange object" from the rafters. He was drenched in sweat, his small hands covered in scratches and dirt.

It was a wind chime made from polished pieces of copper. He had gathered and shaped them for three days and nights without rest. On each copper bar, he clumsily carved his name and his son's name.

"Grandpa..." - Cui slipped down onto the chair, her eyes reddening - "I think, anyway, you still need some sound in the house. To let you know that... the wind is still blowing, and I'm still here with you."

Mr. Thu stood motionless, as if turned to stone. Looking at the strange wind chime swaying, listening to its deep, resolute tones, he felt a strange warmth run down his spine.

He hadn't yet seen his son return in flesh and blood, but he saw in Củi's clear eyes a seed of life needing his nurturing. For fifty years repairing watches, Mr. Thứ had always wanted everything to return to its original state. Now he understood that some things are imperfect, but they contain tolerance and a new beginning.

He stepped forward and placed his calloused hand on the boy's sun-scorched hair:

- Come inside, son. I'll cook you some porridge. And from tomorrow, I'll teach you how to repair watches. I'm old now, and I need young hands to keep the gears from rusting.

Outside, the harsh sunlight cast its last dark golden rays upon the clumsily crafted bell. The wind continued to blow, and a new melody began: jingling, jingling. Though not cold and detached, it was persistent, starting to warm the moss-covered street corner...

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/gio-ve-hien-nha-a198363.html