Rose

However, there are a few people who watch others squander money like it's worthless and remain indifferent. One of them is Mr. Nghia. Mr. Nghia's house is separated from mine by a small stream. His wife passed away, and he raised his son alone. Huân is over twenty years old. Both father and son are kind and hardworking, living simply in a three-room tiled house. In front of Mr. Nghia's house stands a rose bush, which blooms brightly every year. Every time I visit, Mr. Nghia often points to the rose bush and explains:

- Although not a noble flower, it can be likened to poor, simple people who retain their human dignity.

Rose - A short story by Dao Nguyen Hai.

Mr. Nghia always taught his children and grandchildren to follow that "romantic spirit." Therefore, although Huan repeatedly asked his father to let him go to the tin mine with his friends, his father refused.

But then, at the end of the year, Mr. Nghia fell seriously ill.

Huân ran to my house, looking dejected:

Uncle Hop! There's no other way, I have to go to the mine. I can't let my father die.

In that situation, how could I dare stop him? I could only offer a few words of advice:

- The open field is a den of tigers and venomous snakes; you must be careful!

During his first month working in the mine, Huân not only had enough money to buy medicine for his father but also managed to buy a motorbike. He said that having a motorbike made taking his father to the hospital much easier.

A few months later, Huân came to my house again, boasting:

- I'll build a two-story house and plant rose bushes on it so my dad can lie there and admire them all day. I heard that if sick people have a cheerful disposition, they live longer.

Huân is truly a filial son.

Days passed, and the tin storm gradually subsided. We thought the world was calm, but unexpectedly, storms still raged in my small village. Most heartbreaking was that this "windless storm" swept away so many young men from the village. Those who perished were all young men in their early twenties. Some collapsed by the pond, others huddled in their houses, eyes wide open, hands still clutching syringes full of blood.

On my way home from work, I stopped by Huân's house and saw Mr. Nghĩa slumped in a chair. Huân was sitting listlessly by the wall, his face pale.

"What's wrong, Huân?" I asked anxiously.

Mr. Nghia looked up, his face gaunt:

- My family's luck has run out. Huân is an addict... he...

How could someone as gentle and well-behaved as Huân not escape addiction? I groaned in regret.

After attending a ten-day training course at the office, I brought twenty eggs to visit Mr. Nghia. He was lying flat on his bed like a dried sugarcane leaf.

I sat down and held his hand. His physical decay was alarming, but his psychological breakdown was far more devastating.

The funeral had just finished when it started to rain. Everyone said it was a relief that Mr. Nghia had passed away.

***

Since his father's death, Huan has been living like a ghost. All the furniture in the house and the trees in the garden have gradually disappeared. Only the rose bush remains, still blooming brightly.

My neighborhood has been losing chickens and then dogs lately. Every time something goes missing, everyone blames Huan. Living close by, I've witnessed Huan from childhood to adulthood, along with the good upbringing he received from Mr. Nghia, so I never imagined he would steal.

That morning, my wife discovered that our live castrated chicken was missing, and she angrily threatened to run to Huân's house if I hadn't stopped her.

The next day I saw Huan standing hesitantly at the gate. When he saw me, he said:

Uncle Hop! I didn't steal your chickens, please don't wrongly accuse me.

Looking into its eyes, I knew it was telling the truth.

Two days later, my wife whispered, "That chicken wasn't caught by Huân. This morning I saw it with its neck caught in a tea branch, hanging dead on the hill. He must have been too busy with the food." I didn't answer, sighed, and drove to work.

A year passed quickly. Huân still lived a miserable life, burdened by all the sins the villagers had attributed to him. Now, when people saw Huân on the street, many avoided him.

During one of our rare encounters, Huân told me in a choked voice:

- Back then, they forced me to get injections. And that's how I became addicted. I've tried to quit several times, but I couldn't. Once you're hooked on this, you can't quit, Uncle. There's only death left. But you have to believe this: I didn't steal from anyone. The money for the drugs came from selling off my possessions. You know, now all that's left is the shell of my house. If I sell it, I'll have enough to last at least another two or three years.

Hearing Huân's words sent chills down my spine. I felt sorry for him, but I was powerless to do anything.

***

I met Huân again at the market when he was buying something but was short ten thousand dong. Mrs. Hợi, the shop owner, also from the neighborhood, absolutely refused to let him buy it. I took out a ten thousand dong note and put it in her hand. Huân looked at me, mumbled a greeting, and then ran off. Mrs. Hợi watched him go, pouting.

- Humph! Are you planning to catch goats or dogs again, that you need to buy parachute cord?

That evening, Huân came to return ten thousand dong to me. I offered to give it to him, but he absolutely refused to accept it.

The next morning, I heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from Huân's house:

- Huân… Huân… hanged himself!

The whole neighborhood came running. I saw Mrs. Hoi glancing at the rope dangling from the tree branch, her face pale.

When Huân died, I know many people secretly breathed a sigh of relief: "Now the village is finally at peace."

A week later, someone discovered Huân's suicide note. The whole village passed around the letter, trying to decipher its meaning. Essentially, Huân said he had intended to sell the house to fund his drug habit for a few more years, but then realized it was pointless. Furthermore, since the house was bought with money from tin mining, a shared community asset, he decided to donate it to the village to be used as a kindergarten. The whole village was stunned and confused by the letter's contents. Many people then realized that Huân wasn't a thief.

I suggested to the village head that we dig up the rose bush and replant it at the graves of Huân and his father. The rose bush withered for a few weeks, then sprouted lush green leaves.

It was the beginning of winter. Many flowers were fading, but the rose bush beside Huân and his father's grave was still in full bloom. Its pure petals unfurled to welcome the harsh yet warm early winter sunlight.

Source: https://baothainguyen.vn/van-hoa/202506/hoa-tuong-vi-27f1cc2/