This time, the end of the year arrived unexpectedly with a missed call from Mom. Not a voice, but a picture of her sitting on the porch, her midday shadow stretching long behind her, next to a newly pruned bonsai tree with its wire still glistening. Khai stared at the screen for a long time, not daring to call back, afraid of hearing Mom's voice tremble, afraid of hearing her gentle reminder that felt like a sharp needle: "Will you make it home in time, son?"

Khải was renting a room on the fourth floor of an old apartment building. The eighteen-square-meter room had a window that opened directly onto a patch of sky cut by tall buildings. Here, the seasons were indistinct; spring, summer, autumn, and winter blended together amidst the smell of car exhaust and the "ting" sound from the company's group chat. But it was also here that Khải realized something: one could leave their hometown, but they could never leave the feeling of being waited for.

One Sunday evening at the end of December, the city shifted in the rare chill of the wind. Most of the residents of the apartment building had left early to avoid rising ticket prices, to have time to clean up their old houses, and to avoid being questioned. Only a few windows remained brightly lit, isolated, dimly lit, like small flames in a dark field.

Khải, wearing a thin sweater, sat at a rickety wooden table, his fingers fiddling with the electricity bill. Outside, a sudden knock sounded at the door. A man stood there, clutching a stack of cardboard boxes, sweat soaking through his windbreaker. It was Tư, the delivery driver making his last trip of the day.

- Are you still receiving packages for me? I need to stop by quickly this time, I'm afraid you'll fall asleep.

Khải was stunned, then burst out laughing. The goods Tư had delivered weren't for Khải, but for Ms. Sáu from room 402, but she had gone back to her hometown two days earlier. Tư sighed, slumping down on the steps outside the door as if completely exhausted. Without complaining, Tư simply uttered a lighthearted remark:

- At the end of the year, everyone wants to close down and go home. But as for me, I just wish there was a door that would open so I could rest for a while. I'm so tired I could faint!

Khải fell silent for a moment. The words weren't sad, but they stung. Not reproachful, but sorrowful. Not boisterous, but deeply painful. The door to Khải's room was slightly ajar, the yellow light shining into the hallway, illuminating the sun-tanned face of the weary man. In that moment, they were strangely alike, both wanderers in the city whose hearts still yearned for another home.

- Come in and have a drink. Aunt Six isn't here, let me help you put away the box.

Uncle Tư nodded, but his eyes remained cautious, as if afraid of causing further trouble. In the cramped rented room, Khải poured a glass of water, then brewed a packet of tea bought from the supermarket. The warmth rising from the cup filled the space with a gentle scent, not the smell of the countryside, but the scent of unexpected kindness. They sat opposite each other, initially not saying much, but the silence was far from empty. Then, Uncle Tư recounted how he had left his hometown at seventeen, sleeping at construction sites, bus stations, and even under the eaves of a hospital when his father was in critical condition. His hometown had a river that was very turbulent during the flood season, and his family suffered from crop failures repeatedly, but there was one Tet (Lunar New Year) he would never forget. That Tet, despite their poverty, his father still hung a homemade paper lantern in front of the door, so that anyone passing by would feel "invited into the house."

- My father said, "Rich or poor, our home must be bright and welcoming. Bright so people know we are not cold-hearted."

Khải listened, his eyes welling up with tears. His mother, his father, his story—like fragments of lives interwoven to form a different definition of home, one that lies not in material things, but in light, in acceptance, in unconditional openness.

When the teacup was empty, Uncle Tư left for his last delivery, while Khải helped him stack the boxes in the room, then stood watching him disappear down the hallway. Khải closed the door, but in his heart, it felt as if another door had just opened.

***

Two days later, Khai's older brother, who had been married and living separately for almost five years, unexpectedly came to the boarding house. He didn't come to visit, but to ask for a loan, as he and his wife were short on cash this Tet holiday. He wore a neatly ironed shirt, but his steps were heavy.

- Do you have any extra money? I don't want to bother you, but it's the end of the year... I'm exhausted!

Khải looked at his brother, his blood relative, but for some reason, he felt a strange distance between them. Not because of a lack of affection, but because they had never truly understood each other. They hadn't discussed money matters openly since their father's death, when the inheritance remained unclaimed, and when the ancestral prayers were still unfulfilled.

My older brother demanded a division of the house just a few months after our father passed away, just like in those sensational stories people often tell. From then on, he divided the distance, the silence, the worries, and the feeling of helplessness when he had to rely on his younger brother, who was renting a room and was even more destitute than himself.

- Brother, come sit down and have some tea.

Khải pulled up a chair, offering the warmest spot in the room. For the first time in years, the two brothers sat opposite each other without avoiding eye contact. The hot tea emitted a gentle steam, reminding Khải of the night his older brother Tư visited.

"How's Mom doing these days, Khai?" my older brother asked, his voice soft as if afraid of disturbing the winter noise outside.

Khải bowed his head, then answered very slowly:

- My mother still stands at the door every afternoon. She doesn't ask many questions, but she waits a lot.

Brother Hai pursed his lips, swallowing hard. Waiting so long—those two simple words sounded so heavy.

Khải took out his wallet the wad of late salary he'd received. His older brother's hands trembled as he accepted it, his eyes welling up with tears. Life isn't any easier for anyone in this place. Love each other as much as you can, but if you can't, don't say harsh words. Khải didn't blame his older brother for what happened before, but now they could never go back to the closeness they had as children. Adults are just too complicated.

***

On the last day of the year, an unseasonal rain suddenly poured down on the city. Surveillance cameras in front of houses in the countryside appeared on the tenants' phone screens like vivid pictures. Khai opened his home camera. There, his mother sat hunched over, trimming the vines on the bougainvillea trellis, her hands moving slowly but patiently. Behind her was the old house, full of cracks, long, spiderweb-like fissures, but not unsightly. They were the marks of time. They were evidence. They were a map of the floods, the times his father repaired the house, the times the whole family fled the floods and returned, soaking wet but still laughing heartily because they were together.

The camera didn't capture the scent of incense smoke, but it did capture the figure sitting and waiting. It didn't capture the words of remembrance, but it captured the time spent in love. Khai watched, and tears fell unexpectedly. The choked-up feeling wasn't intense, but it lingered. Like a drizzle in the mangrove forest, like sediment settling at the bottom, like words left unsaid. It seems there are things in life we ​​dare not let go of, not because we're afraid of losing them, but because we're afraid… there will be no more signs to recognize each other. If the door isn't lit, people won't know we're still waiting. If Dad's hammock is moved, he won't know the way home. If the inheritance is sold by my older brother, memories will have no place to rest.

That New Year's Eve, Khai decided to take a bus back to his hometown. The bus ticket was expensive, his luggage was light, but his heart was heavy. The bus was packed with people returning home, each with a different wish: some wanted a home, some wanted to keep their home, and some wanted to find their home again in someone else's heart.

The car passed through nameless, dark areas, toll booths gleaming like low-lying stars, close yet unattainable. Khai looked out the window and saw his shadow superimposed on the high-voltage streetlights being installed on construction sites. The light of a new year was taking shape in such a simple way.

Khải arrived home when it was still misty, not quite morning, not quite evening. His mother stood at the door, and said only one sentence, as if she had been waiting for it her whole life:

"You're back, son?"

Then her cheeks flushed and her eyes welled up.

Khải looked at the hammock where his father used to sleep, still hanging in the corner of the porch. The ropes were old, the fabric faded, but no one dared take it down. The whole family tried to keep it because of a childlike yet profound belief: As long as there was a sign to recognize each other, those who had gone far away could still find their way home.

Khải stepped forward, placing his hand on the hammock's edge, feeling as if he were touching his father's hand, the hand of his childhood, of past springs. And in that moment, Khải understood that the most important thing in life is to keep a home where the heart has a place to rest after all weariness, and to keep a bright door so that loved ones can still recognize each other and return.

Original

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