However, there are also a few people who watch the world make money like trash and remain indifferent. One of those people is Mr. Nghia. Mr. Nghia's house is across a small stream from mine. His wife died, and he raised his son alone. Huan is over twenty. Both father and son are gentle and hard-working, living frugally in a three-room tiled house. In front of Mr. Nghia's porch is a wallflower tree, which blooms brightly every year. Every time I come over to visit, Mr. Nghia often points to the wallflower tree and explains:
- Although it is not a noble flower, it can be compared to poor, simple people who maintain their human qualities.
Wallflower - Short story by Dao Nguyen Hai. |
Mr. Nghia also always taught his children and grandchildren to follow that "wallflower character". Therefore, Huan repeatedly asked his father to let him follow his friends to the tin mine, but he did not agree.
But then at the end of the year Mr. Nghia got seriously ill.
Huan ran to my house, distressed:
- Uncle Hop! There is no other way, I have to go to the mine. I cannot let my father die.
In that situation, how could I dare to stop him, I only gave a few words of advice:
- The beach is a den of tigers and snakes, you must be careful!
In the first month of working on the ore, Huan not only had enough money to buy medicine for his father but also bought a motorbike. He said that having a motorbike made it easier to take his father to the hospital.
A few months later, Huan came to my house again and bragged:
- I will build a two-story house and plant a wallflower on it for my father to lie down and look at all day. I heard that sick people with a happy mentality will live longer.
Huan is indeed a filial son.
The days passed, the tin storm gradually subsided. I thought the sky was calm, but unexpectedly the storm still hit my small village. The most heartbreaking thing was that the “windless storm” swept away many young men in the village. Those who died were all young men in their twenties. Some collapsed on the edge of the pond, others curled up in their houses, eyes rolled back, still holding a syringe full of blood.
Coming back from work, I turned to Huan's house and saw Mr. Nghia sitting on a chair, his neck hunched. Huan was sitting slumped against the wall, his face pale.
- What's wrong, Huan? - I asked worriedly.
Mr. Nghia looked up, his face haggard:
- My family is out of luck. Huan is addicted... he...
A gentle and obedient person like Huan can't get rid of his addiction? I groaned in regret.
After a ten-day training session at the office, I brought twenty eggs to visit Mr. Nghia. He was lying flat on the bed like a dry sugarcane leaf.
I sat down and held his hand. The physical devastation was terrible, but the psychological devastation was even more terrible.
It rained as soon as his funeral was over. Everyone said it was cool for Mr. Nghia to go.
* * *
Since his father passed away, Huan has been wandering around like a ghost. All the furniture in the house and the plants in the garden have gone one by one. Only the wallflower is still blooming brightly.
My neighborhood has been losing chickens and dogs lately. Every time something is lost, everyone blames Huan. Living close to each other, I have witnessed Huan growing up with the good teachings of Mr. Nghia, so I never thought he would steal.
That morning my wife discovered that the house had lost a live castrated chicken. She was about to run to Huan's house if I hadn't stopped her.
The next day I saw Huan standing hesitantly at the gate. Seeing me, he said:
- Uncle Hop! I didn't catch your chicken, don't blame me.
Looking into his eyes, I knew he was telling the truth.
Two days later my wife whispered: “That chicken wasn’t caught by Huan. This morning I saw it stuck in a dead tea tree branch hanging on the hill. He must have been too busy with the bait.” I didn’t answer, sighed, got in the car and went to work.
A year passed quickly. Huan still lived a life of misery, with the sins that the people in the neighborhood blamed on him. Now, when meeting Huan on the street, many people avoided him.
In a rare meeting, Huan told me in a choked voice:
- Back then, they forced me to inject them. And so I became addicted. I tried to quit several times but failed. Once you get hooked on this kind of thing, you can't quit. The only way left is death. But you have to believe this: I didn't steal from anyone. The money to buy the drugs came from selling my assets. You know, now all that's left is the house. If I sell it, I'll have enough to last for at least two or three more years.
Hearing Huan say that, I felt a chill down my spine. I felt sorry for him but I couldn't do anything.
* * *
Once again I met Huan at the market when he was buying something but was still ten thousand short, so Mrs. Hoi, the shop owner, also a neighbor, refused to let him pay. I took out a ten thousand bill and put it in her hand. Huan looked at me, mumbled a greeting and ran away. Mrs. Hoi looked after him and pouted:
- Humph! What kind of goat or dog are you trying to catch that you need to buy a rope?
That night Huan came to pay me ten thousand. I offered to give it to him but he refused to accept it.
The next morning, I heard a scream coming from Huan's house:
- Huan... Huan... hanged himself!
The whole neighborhood came. I saw Mrs. Hoi glance at the parachute cord hanging from the tree branch, her face pale.
When Huan died, I knew many people secretly breathed a sigh of relief: "Now the village is at peace."
A week later, someone discovered the letter that Huan left behind before committing suicide. The whole neighborhood spread the meaning of the letter. In general, Huan said that he intended to sell the house to smoke for a few more years, but thought it was meaningless, moreover, that house was also made with money from tin ore, which was a common property of society, so he decided to donate it to the commune to build a kindergarten. The whole neighborhood was stunned and confused when they heard the content of the letter. Many people then realized that Huan was not the one who stole the villagers' property.
I suggested to the village chief to cut down the wallflower roots and plant them at the graves of Huan and his father. The wallflower roots wilted for a few weeks and then turned green again.
Early winter. Many flowers were fading, but the wallflower beside Huan’s father and son’s grave was still blooming brilliantly. The pure petals spread out to welcome the harsh yet passionate early season sunlight.
Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-hoa/202506/hoa-tuong-vi-27f1cc2/
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