Short story: The Lone Bird's Song

( Quang Ngai Newspaper) - The full moon's light streamed through the window, softly illuminating the overgrown dirt road in front of the house. The woman rubbed her eyes and looked out. Outside, the moon shimmered like honey poured onto the longan orchard, which was laden with fruit. In the birdcage behind the house, a pair of doves cooed and chirped affectionately to each other, like newlyweds.

The woman turned away, stifling a sigh, and bent down to finish sewing the torn hem of her dress. Every now and then, she paused, gazing out at the riverbank. The moon was pale, the bank silent as if asleep. A chilling howl echoed from the fields above. She looked around the cold room; the bed, five years old, still looked new, only her pillow was worn and deeply indented. The creaking of termites and cobwebs gnawed at the door, a sound she hadn't bothered to sweep away for so long. Night after night, the creaking seemed to gnaw at and corrode her flesh. Every night, under the yellow lamplight, the spider would spin its web, clinging to the thin thread, swaying back and forth before suddenly swooping down and touching her shoulder… Each time, she would jump and recoil. Eventually, she realized she wasn't afraid of the harmless spider; she was afraid of the emptiness each night that was gnawing away at her body.

MH: VO VAN

Tonight, the sound of the flute by the river soars again. For more than five years, hearing that haunting sound of the flute still makes her chest ache as if someone had just cut a sharp, clean line with a knife. After her husband's long journeys, he would always glance at her dismissively before making an excuse to leave, eating a quick meal before grabbing his flute and heading to the river...

That day, she and her husband crossed the river for the memorial service. At the end of the path running along the canal was the house where the figure of that girl, the one who had carried her husband's soul across the river, stood. At the end of the path, she deliberately slowed down, discreetly glancing over. His face was still as expressionless as when she first became his wife, his eyes always staring into the distance. She gently tugged at her husband's sleeve, her voice dry and detached, like when she sat on the porch swatting mosquitoes, "Let's go visit May and her husband!" Silence. She heard a grunt, and he angrily walked away first. She suddenly felt angry at herself; how could she know and still speak, knowing the pain yet still clinging on? She remembered the day she first became his wife, the day she went to the market with his mother, the women looking at her with curious, sympathetic eyes, and she vaguely heard the words "May." May was his orphaned younger sister, whom his mother had brought home when May was only one year old. For twenty years, May had been his sister; what was there for her to worry about?

He was away for long periods, and she stayed home, tending to the rice paddies and the ducks in the pond. Five years of marriage, five years of waiting for her husband. Every time he returned, he would go to the river, his flute as his companion, playing until nightfall. One night, she crept up behind him, unnoticed. She softly called, "Come home, my love!", her voice so poignant it even the wind seemed to caress him. He turned around, his face still sullen and expressionless, looking at her strangely. He angrily stood up and walked away, and she trudged along behind him.

Many nights, watching his shadow stretch long and silent in the late night moonlight, she wished his heart were like a piece of cloth, ready to be mended with a needle and thread wherever it was torn. The villagers recounted that when May followed her husband across the river, he went to the fields to hoe two acres of land, and at night he carried his flute to the river. Women's intuition is truly strange.
From the day she arrived at her husband's house, she saw the lingering image of another woman in his every meal and every sleep, even the steps he stood before her seemed to hold a distant, dazed look, as if he were finally reunited after many years of separation. They say women are strange creatures; the more pain they feel, the more ruthless they become. At noon, he sat on the porch meticulously cleaning his flute, while she stood in the room combing her hair. Suddenly, she ran out, turned the water jar upside down, spilled the contents everywhere, and rolled it to the banana grove, shouting as she did so, "Move the jar aside to make space! We have a rainwater tank, why keep it so crowded?" Before she could reach the jar, she heard him roar, "Leave it there for me!"

She froze, seeing the red blood vessels in his eyes, and suddenly recoiled as if someone had kicked her. Her mother, rushing back from the market, heard what had happened and whispered, "Just leave it there, dear. May's old water jar at home used to collect rainwater for washing her hair."

The night was as heavy as a hammock. She was alone in the freezing room, the shirt he wore hanging on the hook, which she deliberately didn't wash, yet even it couldn't retain his scent. She hugged the pillow to her chest, gently stroking it. Five years had passed, and she was as thin as a dried fish. Each month, she would look down at her flat stomach, suppressing a soft sigh. Many nights, her mother would come into the room, her bony hand stroking her thin back, trembling, "Why has it been so long, my child?" Before she could finish the question, her mother would pull up her shirt and wipe her reddened eyes, "It's my fault you're suffering now." That was all it took for her to collapse into her mother's arms, sobbing. Only her mother knew that on her wedding night, she had been alone in the freezing room, while her husband, drunk, wandered the docks until dawn, his face distraught as if he had just lost the most precious thing in his life.

His gaze was still fixed on the riverbank, and her heart was still filled with anxious anticipation. He had returned home, and on the second day, he had already packed his bags and prepared to leave. That night, he didn't go to the river, and her heart fluttered with hope. She hurried into her room to change into a new dress—or rather, a new dress, though she'd bought it three years ago and never worn it. What good was wearing beautiful clothes when her husband was away for so long? She gazed into the broken mirror hanging on the door; the beauty of a woman in her thirties remained, though it had been worn down by a hidden sadness.

A woman's happiness is so small; all she needs is someone to care for, someone to cherish, someone to look forward to, someone to worry about when they're late for dinner. She let down her long, silky hair, gently approached, and swatted a mosquito buzzing around his leg. Even after the mosquito flew away, her hand still gently stroked it. He flinched slightly and turned to look at her intently. She blushed as if she were in a secret affair, as if their hands and feet weren't meant for each other. She shook her hair to cover her stiff face, forcing a smile that was more like a grimace. He asked coldly, "Why are you up so late? Are you working in the rice paddies tonight?" She choked back a bitter lump, as if she'd just drunk a cup of medicine, bitterly understanding that his heart was still preoccupied with work by the river.

She sat alone in the damp, cold room, the cats on the roof meowing like crying children. The dim yellow light on the wall flickered on and off. In her heart, his image was indistinct like the twilight. His journeys grew longer and longer. He went away to be alone. And she, in the night, still choked with emotion, counting the months and days, even the fallen leaves outside the window.

The frail little girl May, whom her mother brought home years ago, grew up beside him. He witnessed May's transformation into a young woman, from her gracefully curved lips to her melancholic eyes. May, too, saw in him, the man who always appeared gruff and taciturn, an enduring love as vast as a river. By the age of three, May knew to wait at the gate for her older brother to return. At twenty, May still waited for him as she did when she was three.

A mother's intuition told her that every time she went to the riverbank, she would take May along, and whenever she met a gentle young man, she would try to arrange a marriage for them. In her heart, May and her brother were like siblings. After May left, her mother was sad but relieved, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. On the day her brother got married, she breathed a sigh of relief, never imagining the consequences. Her son was away for months, and her daughter-in-law would spend her evenings gazing out at the river, her heart withering away. The mother felt guilty. One son, who had crossed the river, lingered, looking back; the other, who remained, sought solace in tireless journeys, returning home only to return at night to the river, letting the sound of her flute send her soul across to the other side; and her gentle daughter-in-law, who had smiled so happily on her wedding day, was now like a withered leaf...

The moonlight receded beyond the window, casting a pale light into the cold room. The gecko's clicking sound came from behind the door. She trembled as she approached the chest, carefully folding a few clothes into a worn-out bag. Five years—enough time for someone to stop waiting. She left. Perhaps one day, when he awakens and realizes that painful love has robbed him of a family home, he will free himself. And she will mend the shattered pieces of her life, patching them up with fragrant patches. She gazed into the broken mirror; the woman in her thirties was still gentle and graceful, her eyes, though sorrowful, now shone with a glimmer of hope…

She ran across the field, her feet practically running, and looking up, she suddenly saw a crescent moon that seemed to be smiling. Somewhere, the melodious chirping of a lone night bird rose up, as if it had finally found light after long nights...

VU NGOC GIAO

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Source: https://baoquangngai.vn/van-hoa/van-hoc/202411/truyen-ngan-tieng-chim-le-dan-fa41f82/