The bakery and the letters

The aroma of baked dough mingled with cinnamon from the oven still lingered in the fading afternoon air. Hue stood before the brown-painted wooden door bearing the sign "Bich Ngoc Mooncake Shop." She remembered that four years ago, Nguyen himself had repainted this sign, saying proudly, "Look, this year we'll have the most beautiful Mid-Autumn Festival ever."

Four years. Four moonlit nights, and she hadn't returned to this place even once. During her time in the distant city, she thought time would heal the pain, but every Mid-Autumn Festival, the smell of mooncakes from the shops on the street would make her heart ache. Today, as she stepped off the last bus, and the familiar scent from this small alley wafted back, she understood that some memories can never be forgotten.

From inside came the steady hum of the dough mixer, interspersed with soft, hacking coughs. She knew it was Aunt Ngoc preparing the afternoon's batch of cakes. Would Aunt Ngoc's thin, frail hands still have the strength to knead the dough and roll out each layer of cake? She remembered those early mornings when Nguyen would wake up at 5 a.m. to help his mother prepare the ingredients, his eyes intently focused as he rolled each mung bean filling and each fragrant piece of meat.

The familiar wooden door creaked open. Aunt Ngoc stepped out, her hair much grayer than before, her back noticeably hunched. But her eyes still lit up when she saw Hue . Tears welled up, but she held them back. "Hue, you're back?" her voice trembled. "I've been waiting for you for so long."

The interior space remained the same, only the shelves were emptier, and there were fewer cake molds. The corner table where Nguyen used to sit designing cake patterns now only had a small chair against the wall, on which sat a thick notebook. Hue immediately recognized it as the recipe notebook that Nguyen had handwritten line by line, from the early days of learning the trade.

"Auntie still makes the cakes using Nguyen's recipe," Aunt Ngoc said, her voice trembling slightly as she handed the notebook to Hue. Nguyen's clear handwriting appeared before Hue's eyes: "Sticky rice cake with mung bean filling, ratio of glutinous rice flour to rock sugar 5:2, remember to add a little cooking oil to make the cake soft. Hue prefers soft cakes to chewy ones"... Each word was like a whisper from the past, making her heart ache.

“Now that I’m old, my eyesight is failing, my hands tremble, but every time this season comes around, I remember you. I remember all the times Nguyen talked about you.” The afternoon faded. They sat together, listening to the steady hum of the oven. The aroma of baking cakes wafted from the stove, mingling with the sunlight streaming through the small window. Hue looked out at the backyard, where the osmanthus flower pot that Nguyen had planted still stood, its tiny blossoms in full bloom. Aunt Ngoc whispered, “Every Mid-Autumn Festival, I don’t make cakes for profit. I make them simply because I miss Nguyen.”

That evening, Aunt Ngoc led Hue into the small room behind the shop, where Nguyen usually took his afternoon naps on busy days. The room was the same as always: a bed, a small wardrobe, and a wooden box on the table. Alone in the room, Hue opened the box. Inside were notes, sketches of cake packaging, and at the bottom, an unsent letter. Familiar words flowed before her eyes under the lamplight:

"My beloved Hue, I'm writing these lines late at night, having just finished a trial batch of mooncakes for this year's Mid-Autumn Festival. I've wanted to tell you for a long time that I want to expand this bakery. Not just selling mooncakes, but also teaching others how to make them, so that our family recipes won't be lost. I dream of a small space where you can display your paintings, where we can share our love through each mooncake..."

The final words made Nguyen burst into tears: "My dear, I believe love is like baking; it needs time, patience, for the cake to bake evenly and become fragrant and delicious. I want to spend my whole life loving you." Outside the window, the full moon shone brightly. Hue sat there until late at night, listening to the distant crowing of roosters from the neighbor's house, and the occasional sound of motorbikes passing through the small alley.

***

Early in the morning, the sound of the dough mixer echoed from downstairs. Hue woke up to the smell of baking cakes, a familiar scent that brought her an indescribable peace. Aunt Ngoc was standing by the stove stirring the mung bean filling. Her hair was neatly tied back, and her hands were still skillful despite trembling with age.

Hue stood beside her aunt, watching each familiar step. The mung bean mixture boiled, foam rising, and the fragrant aroma of pandan leaves filled the morning air. “Auntie, can I stay here?” Aunt Ngoc turned completely to look at Hue. “Are you serious?” “Yes, Auntie. I want to make cakes with you, to continue what Nguyen left unfinished…”

Outside, the gentle rays of early autumn sunlight filtered through the banana trees. No one spoke, only the sound of boiling water and the aroma of baking cakes filled the air.

***

That Mid-Autumn Festival, the small bakery was bustling with activity. Hue stayed, waking up early each morning with Aunt Ngoc to prepare the ingredients. In the afternoons, Hue sat at the table where Nguyen usually designed the cake packaging. She opened her notebook again, reading every line he had left behind. There were recipes he hadn't tried, ideas he had only jotted down: "Durian-filled mooncakes - experimenting with the ratio of durian and mung beans," "Baking classes for children, once a month"...

On the night before the Mid-Autumn Festival, Hue sat alone in the quiet bakery. Carefully packaged boxes of mooncakes were arranged in rows on the shelves. There weren't as many as in previous years, but each mooncake was made with love. She took out Nguyen's letter and placed it on the table under the warm yellow light.

She picked up her pen and continued writing, "Nguyen, now I understand. True love never ends, it only changes form. I will stay here, I will continue what you left unfinished. This little bakery will forever be the place that holds our love and all the dreams you once cherished."

Outside, the full moon hung suspended above the moss-covered roof. The aroma of freshly baked pastries still lingered in the late night, mingling with the scent of osmanthus flowers in the yard. And Hue knew that, even though Nguyen was no longer here, his love for her, for this little bakery, would never fade.

Short story: MAI THI TRUC

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/tiem-banh-va-nhung-la-thu-a191751.html