The piano keys are put aside.

Her childhood was an unfinished song. Those notes echoed from the old teacher's piano at the end of the village - the gentle sound like the wind in the fields, seeping into her young soul, awakening in her a vague desire: to sit in front of the piano, wearing a pure white dress, bowing under the stage lights. But her life, like a dry rice field in the dry season, never had room for dreams. Born into a poor family in the Central countryside, the famine seasons taught her from a young age how to endure and sacrifice. Every afternoon after school, she often lingered on the teacher's porch. Through the leaves, she secretly watched her skinny fingers glide over the piano keys. Once, catching her gaze, she smiled: - Do you want to learn? She nodded softly: Yes! She said: - Clean the classroom, clean the piano, and I will teach you.

Illustration photo.

From then on, she went to the teacher's house every day and worked diligently. Four months passed, four months of her living in a gentle dream. But then she passed away. The guitar closed. The dream closed with it.

Then she grew up in a hurry, took on the role of the eldest sister in a large family, dropped out of school, worked as a hired rice farmer, carried water for hire, worked hard day and night. Her fingers that used to glide over the piano keys were now calloused, soaked in the smell of mud. Then she got married - a gentle man who loved her but knew nothing about music . They lived in poverty. He died early of lung disease, leaving her with two young children. She became the whole sky for her children, not daring to think about anything for herself anymore.

But the old dreams, like the silent sprouts in the barren soil, still quietly sprouted through the two daughters. The older sister - careful, quiet - soon noticed the sadness in her mother's eyes every time she heard the song coming from the old radio. She started practicing singing. Her voice was as clear as the morning dew falling on the leaves. One day, she looked at her mother: - Mom... I want to learn to play the piano.

Hoa paused. The guitar - a luxury she had once touched and then lost. But before her child's earnest eyes, she just nodded slightly: - I will try.

She took on extra work in the evenings, saving every penny. When her son was fifteen, she bought an old electric piano. She placed it in the middle of the house, dusted it every day, and cherished it like a treasure.
- Listening to you play, I feel my childhood come back to life - she whispered, her eyes red. Her younger sister - agile, dreamy - has been dancing to music since she was little, then making up her own lyrics for the songs she heard. Hoa watched, her gaze as gentle as the morning sun. Her heart ached when she saw her daughter sitting in the middle of the house, swaying to the faint music. There were late afternoons when she just sat quietly, looking at her two children and listening... as if listening to herself again.

Then that summer, the older sister was preparing to take the entrance exam to the Conservatory of Music, and the younger sister was ten years old. The two sisters were chosen to perform at the end-of-year ceremony: the older sister sang and played the piano, the younger sister danced as backup. Sister Hoa sat in the front row, wearing a white ao dai that she had kept for decades - the dress she had dreamed of wearing on stage. Watching her two children perform, she burst into tears, not out of regret but out of happiness. The unfinished dream had blossomed on the small shoulders of her children.

That evening, the three of them sat by the small fire. On the table was a plate of fragrant baked sweet potato cakes. The night wind blew through the crack in the door, carrying with it the faint scent of jasmine.
- When I was little, I had a dream - she said slowly - of having a guitar, of learning music, of performing... But my grandmother was sick, the family was poor, and then my father passed away, so I put everything aside. There were times when I thought, well, dreams are just dreams. But then... - she turned to her daughter - I saw you singing, and I believed that if the dream was real enough, I would find someone to continue writing it. The older sister sobbed. The younger sister hugged her mother and whispered: - Mom, we will continue writing... including your part.

That night, laughter echoed around the fire. Outside, the moon rose quietly. In Hoa's heart, an old song softly played, no longer unfinished, but gentle and complete like a summer piano piece - rewritten by the hands of children who knew how to dream.

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/sang-tac/202507/truyen-ngan-phim-dan-gac-lai-ae350eb/