The seasons of flowers that have passed

The river's surface, stretching towards the horizon, deepened into the vast expanse of water at sunset. The twilight stretched far into the distance, casting a few final streaks of light. Five years had passed. She couldn't remember how many times she had returned to this place. Everything still retained its breathtaking, unspoiled beauty, still peaceful after the storms and floods. A small boat drifted slowly downstream, its roof emitting a gentle, hazy smoke in the evening breeze. Without the boat drifting on the other side, without the warm smoke rising from the house on this riverbank, this place would be utterly desolate. The river's surface was still, yet her heart was unsettled, vaguely hearing the sound of footsteps echoing from afar.

Five years isn't a long time, but it's enough for this riverside to become a anchor for memories, and the face of someone who now only flashes through dreams. Back then, Dang and she went to the same school. Dang was from the central highlands, intelligent and quiet. Every day he cycled from the dormitory to school, silently and diligently. She fell for his slender figure, for the pensive eyes behind his thick glasses, and for the rainy days when he would slip a warm packet of sticky rice into her hand.

After graduating, Dang didn't stay in the city to find a job, but chose to return to his hometown. "I'll go back and set up a small library for the children in the village. They're so pitiful! They rarely get to hold a book." Lam didn't stop him. She also stepped into the new environment like an adult, leaving behind her youthful dreams. Messages to Dang became less frequent. Until that summer, the ambitions and aspirations she had while still in school suddenly faded in the face of the harsh realities of work. Silently, she packed her bags and went back to her hometown to find Dang.

The wooden house was situated on the riverbank. Not far away was a path leading to a small house built of wooden planks, with a thatched roof, inside which were several bookshelves overflowing with comic books, fairy tales, detective stories… A few children were chasing each other around a basket boat, their voices mingling with the earthy scent of wildflowers wafting from the distant fields. Dang's mother, just over seventy, her back bent like a question mark, looked at Lam with gentle, affectionate eyes. “Come inside, child! Stay here and play a little longer, Dang keeps mentioning you…” Without waiting for his mother to finish, Dang chuckled, led her to the backyard, pointed to a patch of white chrysanthemums, and whispered, “This chrysanthemum garden is yours! I planted it for you!”

One afternoon, also on this riverbank, she leaned against Dang's shoulder, listening to the wind from the other side of the river carrying the scent of young corn still containing milk. "Can you come back here?" Dang asked. Lam gently shook her head. She knew that just hearing this idea would immediately discourage her parents.

On the day they returned to the city, Dang drove her on his old motorbike to the highway to catch a ride. He stood watching until her figure faded into the hazy dust. That summer, Dang volunteered to help flood victims. He and two friends gathered books, clothes, and other supplies and loaded them onto a motorbike. On the way back, the motorbike's brakes failed, and it plunged down the mountain pass. Dang never returned. The last message he sent her was just one line: "When the white chrysanthemum season comes, remember to come home!"

That year, during the season of white chrysanthemums, she returned to Dang's hometown. This time, she sat alone by the riverbank, listening to the waves lapping against the shore. The same fishing nets lay exposed to the sun, waiting for the tide to rise. The same quiet path stretched silently through the fields in the afternoon. The same wildflowers bloomed endlessly, rustling on a windy hillside. Every year at this time, flocks of field birds would have returned, soaring over the hills and across the river as the fields began to turn golden. Dang said that when the field birds returned, the villagers wouldn't have to worry about crop failure, famine, or floods anymore.

As the sun was setting, casting its last rays, she suddenly heard the chirping of children behind her. A little girl with her hair tied up in a ponytail ran up and excitedly pressed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums into Lam's hand. "Are you Miss Lam?" Without waiting for her answer, the little girl ran off with her friends, turning back with a big smile after a short distance, "Dang said you really like chrysanthemums!"

She felt her heart tighten. Walking slowly along the grassy path, she entered the village. There was Dang's house! Suddenly, she felt as nervous as the first time she'd set foot there. The house was still the same, small and nestled behind the overgrown banana trees, with rows of carefully trimmed tea plants stretching from the entrance to the yard. A shadow briefly passed by the doorway. Lam froze. From inside, a slender young woman quickly emerged, inviting Lam in and introducing herself, "I'm Hue, Dang's younger sister. My mother passed away three years ago, and I brought my husband and children here. I want to keep the house, the garden, the library for the children, and even the garden of white chrysanthemums… for you."

Outside, the wind rustled in from the river, carrying cool, damp air. She bowed her head, tears silently welling up. That night, she slept on the old wooden bed but couldn't fall asleep. On the wall, a photograph of Dang smiling brightly among children hung, its face etched with the dust of time. Early in the morning, she woke up to the sound of roosters crowing. Through the window, a few gentle rays of sunlight filtered in, carrying the faint scent of kitchen smoke. She lay still, listening to the chirping of birds in the morning glory, the rustling of the bamboo broom sweeping leaves. Hue had been awake for some time, diligently sweeping the yard. She put on a thin woolen sweater and went out onto the porch. Hue was gathering leaves to light a fire, and by the water basin, a little girl sat before a stone mill grinding flour, its humming sound pleasant in the early morning. The girl looked up, and she recognized her as the same girl who had slipped a bouquet of white chrysanthemums into her hand the day before.

“Aunt Lam, you’re awake? Mom told me to grind some rice to make pancakes for you. Sit down here and tell me a story!” She squinted at the little girl who was eagerly waiting, “What story do you want to hear?” “A story about Dang when he was in school,” the little girl said, beaming. She chuckled, a warm, affectionate feeling welling up inside her. She scooped a ladle of rice into the mortar. “Let me try grinding some!” The little girl stepped aside to make room. She bent down and worked for a while, sweat pouring down her face. From the garden, Hue’s voice called out, “Let’s go to the library, sister!”

Standing before the overflowing bookshelves, she tearfully picked up each book, a handwritten note falling out. Dang's familiar, firm handwriting danced before her eyes: Monday: Telling the story of the old fisherman and the golden fish. Tuesday: Teaching how to make star-shaped bamboo lanterns. Wednesday: Traditional games… Hue had come up behind her without her noticing, whispering, “No matter how busy I am, I still come here once a week to clean and tidy up. Sometimes I think about selling it to make things easier, but then I think of Dang, and I stop. He once said that if you ever come back, this place will be like your home.”

Outside in the garden, the scent of chrysanthemums wafted on the breeze. She sat down on the cool cement pavement, gazing absentmindedly at the sun-drenched space, hearing what sounded like Dang's laughter mingling with the children's cheerful chatter as they returned from school. From the end of the dirt road leading here, patches of chrysanthemums blazed with pristine white under the sunlight.

Hue and the teacher rearranged the bookshelves, neatly organizing them by genre so the children could easily find what they were reading. While the teacher was busy mending some worn book spines, Hue ran over and handed her the unfinished letter Dang had written. The words danced and smudged before her eyes. "If one day you return to this place, don't regret the seasons of flowers that have passed... I believe we will meet again..."

That afternoon, the children from the village crowded onto the porch, listening to her tell stories, teach her painting, and how to make paper flowers. Some of the little ones even insisted on taking her to see Mun, the kitten that had just given birth in the banana grove behind the house.

The sun set early. She went back to the river. A few scattered fishing lights from boats on the opposite bank cast streaks of light. Still reeling from the overwhelming longing for Dang, she was startled by the sudden cry of a bittern from the other bank, as if someone were chasing it away, causing it to fly up in panic, leaving behind a mournful cry that drifted on the water in the twilight. The river wind continued to blow fiercely. Perhaps, somewhere, Dang was also returning.

Short story by Vu Ngoc Giao

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/nhung-mua-hoa-lo-a200793.html