The garden after the storm

Binh and I grew up together by the embankments and the golden straw-strewn paths during harvest seasons. Back then, my family was poor, but Binh's was even poorer. Binh lost his father when he was only a few months old. I remember that whenever a storm came, Binh would run to take shelter under the eaves of my house until the rain stopped. Although I was poor, I was loved by my parents, while Binh seemed abandoned, because his mother soon left to work far away.

There were years when we shared every single roasted sweet potato still covered in ash, sleeping together on a bamboo bed in the sweltering summer heat. Later, I moved to the city, and Binh followed. Our relationship was more than just friendship; we were like brothers, protecting each other through difficult times.

But our lives diverged. Ten years flew by in the blink of an eye, like a midday nap. Binh toiled diligently, seizing every opportunity to acquire a home. Meanwhile, I chased after frivolous things, only to spiral into misguided calculations and my own laziness. I lost my roots, and after the storms of life, I was left penniless, without a harbor, with nowhere to return to.

One afternoon, I stood in front of Binh's house, ashamed to enter a meeting I knew would likely end any remaining friendship between us. At that moment, a heavy drizzle fell over the city, enveloping everything. For ten years, Binh had painstakingly built this fortune, while I had squandered my life like a storm sweeping across a ripening field.

Binh was still the same, tall and thin, only his hair now had more gray strands. Still my friend from years ago, Binh looked at me silently and invited me to a truly authentic home-cooked meal. The meal included braised fish in a clay pot, fragrant with aged ginger, a bowl of sour and tangy broth made from boiled starfruit, and white rice cooked from freshly harvested grains. My hands trembled as I held the chopsticks. This wasn't just food; it was the scent of a decent time I had long lost. It was the scent of my father, the scent of the garden behind the house every spring. A scent I had deliberately tried to forget amidst the drunken revelry of the past.

I used to be arrogant, thinking myself clever and shrewd, so during my years in the city, my downfall wasn't due to lack of strength, but greed. I threw myself into opportunistic business deals and then plunged into gambling, hoping to change my life overnight. When debt overwhelmed me with no way out, I frantically sold my parents' garden – the only thing connecting me to my ancestors and roots. I had cut off my own path back home.

Now, I stand in the middle of a vast, empty space. Behind me are the relentless threats of debt collectors, and before me is utter emptiness. Hunger is nothing compared to the humiliation of not daring to look anyone in the eye anymore. I went to find Binh, clinging to the last vestiges of our old friendship.

When I finally managed to ask for help, vowing it would be the last time, Binh remained silent for a long time, his eyes fixed on the shimmering raindrops on the windowpane. I knew he was struggling intensely. He hesitated not necessarily because he didn't want the money, but because he feared that if he offered his help too easily this time, it would only drag me deeper into trouble...

After dinner, Binh placed an old key on the table and said that my father had given it to him before he passed away, with the message that when I let go of the illusion of getting rich without effort, I should give it back to him. Everything I needed was in the storage room behind my old house and garden.

***

I left the city that very night on my old motorbike. The road back to my hometown was lined with rows of intertwined bamboo trees, like arms shielding from the sun and rain. The garden appeared in the darkness, cold and devoid of human presence. I felt a tightness in my chest.

After a long journey, I was exhausted, but my feet unconsciously led me towards the old shed under the longan tree. The lock clicked open with a dry sound. I pushed the door open and saw a simple wooden chest in the corner. Inside, an old envelope, hastily written in Binh's handwriting, read: "To Kien, this land never belonged to Binh. That year you sold the land, your father used up all his retirement savings, and Binh gathered all his capital to buy it back, knowing that one day you would need a place to return to. This garden is just waiting for Binh's sweat to soak into it so it can green again."

I finished reading and was speechless. It turned out that, over the past ten years, the most precious thing my father and Binh had left me wasn't money, but a chance to start my life over. That night, I cried in the darkness of the overgrown garden. I felt small and guilty, but also felt a weight lifted from my heart, as if I had found a way out after days of being lost in the deep forest.

***

That spring arrived late. I toiled in the garden, clearing away the tall weeds, turning over the hard, clods of earth, my hands calloused and bleeding. But strangely, each night when I lay down, I no longer had nightmares chasing me. I slept soundly, my breath mingling with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.

On a crisp early summer morning, amidst the meticulously tilled soil, the first green sprouts began to emerge. They were tiny, delicate as threads, yet clung tightly to the earth, trembling but resilient in the early morning breeze. Binh appeared at the gate one afternoon in the fading sunlight, wearing old rubber sandals, his feet glistening with mud, and silently sat down beside me at the edge of the vegetable patch. He didn't ask any questions or tell any stories. We sat there in silence, listening to the distant chirping of the skylark and the rustling of the leaves of the longan tree, which still stubbornly survived despite being neglected.

I looked at my hands, dark, muddy, and calloused. I had spent ten years wandering aimlessly, only to relearn how to touch the earth and realize that happiness is not something you can borrow. The garden, after the storm, was turning green again. And I, too, was beginning to take root in my own life…

Short story: Mai Thi Truc

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/manh-vuon-sau-con-bao-a203595.html