The bowl of hot porridge finished, Quyen slowly rose, intending to return to the teachers' dormitory near the school to prepare for her afternoon classes. She adjusted her backpack, but just as she reached the door, she felt a gentle hand tug at her arm.
"Sister… stay with me today," Ngoc said softly, her voice full of hope. "You only have two periods this afternoon, right? You could go to class a little late…"
Quyen paused. The request didn't surprise her; she knew that in the first days after childbirth, a woman always needed family by her side. She wanted to stay, to help Thanh with the chores, to clean, to care for the mother and child. But then, the image of her classroom—the eager, smudged faces of her students—surfaced in her mind. The thought of her unfinished lesson and their expectant eyes made a pang of unease stir within her.
After a moment's thought, she replied gently, "Let me go back to school for a bit, I'll get everything sorted and ask the board for permission. As soon as I'm done, I'll come right back. If you need anything, let me know and I'll buy it on my way."
Hearing this, Ngoc smiled, the fatigue in her eyes softening with a sense of relief.
"Yes, that works. Be careful on your way, sister."
Thanh, who had been busy clearing the dishes, turned and said reassuringly, "Don't worry too much. I'll be home for the most part. I just have one period this morning, and I'll be back right after. Can't stay at school for lunch; my wife and child need me."
He said it half-jokingly, but his tone was filled with responsibility and affection. Looking at Thanh, then at Ngoc and baby Tien, Quyen felt an indescribable emotion rise within her—a warmth mixed with a hollow ache. She was happy that her friends had found a stable harbor, a small family to nurture, but at the same time, in some corner of her soul, she suddenly felt adrift.
Quyen quickly pushed the thought away. She pulled on a thin sweater, carefully zipped her backpack, and slung it over her shoulder. Before stepping out, she didn't forget to remind Ngoc to rest and eat well.
Leaving the little house, her footsteps merged with the morning sun. The sun had climbed higher now, casting its light upon hills still damp with dew. A new day had begun.
The dirt path from Ngoc and Thanh's house to the school snaked across the hillside, winding through precarious terraced fields. Patches of vibrant green rice shoots were interwoven with the pale yellow of wild grass, creating a rustic and poetic landscape. In the distance, a few plumes of kitchen smoke rose from the pơ mu wood roofs, dissolving into the clear sky. Along the way, Quyen saw the scattered fields of the local ethnic people, glimpsing the flickering figures of women with babies on their backs, bent over as they weeded and gathered vegetables. Barefoot children ran along the slopes, their clothes smudged with dirt but their faces radiant.
As Quyen walked, she raised a hand to greet the familiar faces. Some smiled brightly, their simple voices calling back, "Hello, teacher!" An old woman, carrying a bundle of forest vegetables on her back, invited her to stop by, saying she had just picked some sweet bamboo shoots that morning. Here on the high ridges, the warmth of human kindness was always like a fire on a winter evening, making even the most lost travelers from afar feel sheltered.
But just as Quyen reached the halfway point, the sky suddenly turned a leaden gray. A bitter wind swept down from the mountain peaks, carrying flurries of dry leaves. Quyen shivered, pulling her woolen scarf tighter around her neck. She vaguely recalled a weather report she'd heard on the radio that morning, mentioning a cold front that might bring hail. She hadn't thought the storm would arrive so suddenly.
Her pace quickened. The dirt path, already slippery, was now made more treacherous by the strong wind. Just a few minutes later, the forest rain descended without warning. Heavy drops lashed against her face, stinging with cold. The rain came down in torrents, forming small, swift currents that rushed down the slope, carrying red earth and decaying leaves. Quyen shuddered, trying to navigate the muddy puddles.
I hope Ngoc and Thanh's roof isn't leaking. The baby is so small, it would be terrible if the house is leaking in this cold… The thought flashed through her mind, heightening her anxiety. The rain grew heavier, and the rumble of thunder echoed from the distant mountains. In an instant, her clothes were soaked through, and the backpack on her shoulders grew heavy with cold water. Her shoes were caked in mud, each step a heavy effort that seemed to pull her back.
She glanced around frantically, searching for shelter. Finally, at the edge of the path, an abandoned hut appeared. Though its thatched roof was riddled with holes, it was enough to offer some protection from the downpour. Quyen rushed inside, huddling in a corner, trying to rub her hands together for warmth. Before her, the forest rain continued its relentless assault, shrouding the landscape in a gray mist.
Amidst the rumbling thunder, she suddenly heard a faint voice calling out through the rain. She looked up, and through the white curtain of water, a small figure emerged. It was Lau, one of her third-grade students, a frail, wiry boy, his clothes soaked and clinging to his frame. He was shivering, his small hands clutching a torn piece of nylon, trying to shield the old schoolbag on his back. He ran toward her, his voice trembling:
"Teacher, the rain is so heavy… I'm scared…"
Quyen immediately waved him into the hut. She quickly took off her outer jacket and wrapped it around the boy, her voice soothing and calm.
"It's all right. We'll wait for the rain to let up, then we'll continue on together, okay?"
Lau nodded, pressing close to her, his wide eyes still filled with anxiety. Quyen pulled the boy down to sit beside her, trying to shield him from the drops that still leaked through the tattered roof. Despite the biting cold, in that moment, under the dilapidated roof, a quiet warmth began to spread.
She spoke gently to Lau, trying to distract him from his fear of the storm. She told him a funny story about a mischievous monkey in the forest, and about a time when she was a little girl and had also gotten lost in a downpour on her way to school. As the boy listened, his expression gradually softened, and a small chuckle escaped his lips.
Outside, the rain still raged, but inside the small hut, the bond between teacher and student burned like a quiet flame, pushing back the chill of the storm roaring just beyond their shelter.
The rain fell for more than half an hour, pouring down as if the sky were emptying an ocean onto the mountains. Swift currents of water rushed down the slopes, carrying away dead leaves and mud, carving muddy gashes into the path that led to the school. The red earth, already slick, had turned into a viscous mire that swallowed every footstep.
Inside the old hut, Lau huddled, clutching his schoolbag, his eyes fixed on the downpour outside. His small hands tightened on the piece of nylon covering his bag, as if afraid the rain would wash away the notebooks still fragrant with new paper. He hesitated, his voice filled with worry:
"Teacher, how can we get to school now? That path is so slippery, it's too hard to cross."
Quyen was silent for a moment, her mind racing. Here, wading through mud and climbing steep slopes was a daily affair for her and her colleagues. But today's rain was too sudden, too fierce. The landscape seemed transformed, shrouded in a dreary gray. She worried not only for Lau but also for the small school ahead. This storm could have broken an old support beam, torn a corner from the tin roof, or damaged the power lines. Just one small problem could disrupt the children's school day.
She frowned in thought, then spoke in a reassuring tone, "Let's wait a little longer and see if the rain lets up. Then I'll take you on the detour around the eastern slope. It's steeper, but the water won't be as high."
Lau nodded, his eyes still glued to the world outside. He was only in third grade, a thin boy in old plastic sandals. She wondered if he could manage the treacherous path ahead.
About ten minutes later, the rain did indeed begin to subside, slowing to a heavy patter on the hut's thatched roof. Unable to wait any longer, Quyen adjusted her backpack, pulled up the hood of her raincoat, and beckoned to Lau. The two of them set off.
The detour was longer, forcing them to navigate waterlogged terraced fields and a narrow trail along the hillside. The earth beneath them was soft and yielding, a viscous mud that seemed to swallow each step. With every footfall, heavy muck clung to their heels. On the slickest parts of the path, they had to grab onto moss-covered rocks or trailside branches to keep their balance.
"Stay strong, Lau, hold my hand," Quyen said, reaching out to help the boy across a slippery slope.
Lau was breathing heavily but bit his lip and pushed on, his eyes resolute. The children in these highlands were accustomed to nature's harshness. She remembered another time, during a heavy rain, when a different student of hers had fallen and covered himself in mud. He had simply brushed himself off and kept walking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Quyen paused for a moment to catch her breath. The rain had chilled her to the bone, and her legs ached with fatigue, but it wasn't herself she was most worried about. She looked up toward the small village where Ngoc and Thanh lived. A thought suddenly struck her, and she couldn't help but wonder: If Thanh or Ngoc were caught in a rain like this, how would they carry the baby to the clinic in an emergency?
These thoughts swirled in her mind, mingling with the sound of rushing water. In the city, a heavy rain might be a mere inconvenience, but here, it could be a matter of life and death. A landslide could cut off an entire village. A hailstorm could wipe out a season's worth of corn and rice. A high fever in the middle of the night could become a catastrophe when the clinic was hours away on foot.
Living in this remote border region for so long, she had come to understand the fragility of human life in the face of nature. No matter how strong or resilient people were, there were times they were pushed into impossible situations, with nothing to do but endure and press on.
She clenched her fists, took a deep breath, and turned to Lau with an encouraging smile.
"We're almost at the school. Just a little further."
The boy smiled back, his eyes lighting up. And so, on that muddy path, the teacher and her student continued their journey forward.
Finally, after a long, slippery, and soaking journey, Quyen and Lau arrived at the school gate. The rain had almost stopped, with only a few lingering drops falling from the tin roof onto the courtyard. The ground was a mess of mud, and small puddles reflected the still-overcast sky. The school was quiet, the trees rustling in the passing wind. Under the eaves, a few other students and teachers were taking shelter, their faces still showing traces of worry from the sudden storm.
Seeing Quyen arrive drenched and disheveled, everyone rushed over to her.
"Teacher Quyen, you're soaked! Go to the clinic and change so you don't get cold!"
Quyen managed a weary smile, grateful for the concern of her colleagues and students. She bent down to wring out her dripping pant legs, then patted Lau on the shoulder and told him to go to his classroom and settle in. The boy nodded obediently and ran off, while Quyen took off her heavy, waterlogged jacket, shaking off the mud that clung to the sleeves.
As she was struggling with her jacket, a familiar figure approached. The vice-principal, her hair still damp and tied in a high bun, had a worried look on her face.
"Quyen, I'm glad you made it. The storm blew off a few tin sheets from the workshop. We'll have to cancel practical classes this afternoon; it's too dangerous. Can you help us organize the equipment and cover the leaks with a tarp?"
Quyen immediately nodded, forgetting her exhaustion. This wasn't the first time the school had been left in disarray after a heavy rain. The mountains were harsh, storms were unpredictable, and the terrain was steep. After every storm, the school was a wreck and had to be repaired from scratch. Old tin roofs were peeled back by the wind, cracks in the wooden walls widened, and the children's notebooks, often left unprotected, would be soaked until the ink ran and the words blurred.
Even so, no one complained or lost heart. The teachers were all too familiar with such situations, and they simply set to work without needing much direction. One climbed onto the roof to secure the loose sheets, another arranged bricks to hold down a tarp over a leak, while others tidied up the furniture. Quyen, too, rolled up her sleeves and joined a group of teachers sorting through a pile of wet notebooks, salvaging what pages they could and laying them out to dry under the eaves.
Time passed quickly, and soon it was noon. The rain had stopped completely, and the sun abruptly returned, its glare so intense that it dried the schoolyard in moments. The air settled back into its usual quiet, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.
Quyen looked up and saw that the sky was once again a brilliant blue, as if the storm had never happened. She thought to herself: Life in the highlands is like a film of stark contrasts—a morning of freezing rain followed by a scorching afternoon sun. But no matter the weather, the people here always persevere, always work together to rebuild what had been broken, so that the children could return to class the next day, in these very rooms.
After finishing her work at school, Quyen hurried back to the teachers' dormitory. Under the small porch, she took off her muddy shoes, feeling the last of the storm's chill on her skin. Stepping into her room, she immediately went to take a warm shower, changing into clean clothes and letting the water wash away the fatigue that clung to her. The warmth spread through her, but a faint, listless feeling remained in her heart, like the after-echo of a wind that had not yet settled.
While toweling her hair, she opened her phone and composed a message to Thanh:
"The roads are very slippery, be careful on your way home. Are Ngoc and the baby okay?"
A reply came almost immediately, short but with Thanh's usual thoughtfulness:
"Don't worry, the house isn't leaking, and mother and child are fine. I just got back from looking after Tien. I'll probably have to go back to school this afternoon to deal with some paperwork. Take care of yourself."
Quyen looked at the words on the screen and smiled faintly. Thanh's concern always made her feel warm, but at the same time, a vague, stirring feeling crept into her mind. She quietly pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart beat steadily, yet there was something different—a small confusion, a tightness she couldn't explain.
Is it… jealousy? Am I envious of Thanh and Ngoc's happiness? The thought shot through her mind like a cold breeze. She startled, then quickly shook her head, telling herself:
No, I shouldn't think that. Ngoc is my sister, Thanh is my brother. They are my family…
But no matter how much her reason tried to soothe her, the encroaching sadness would not fade. Sometimes, when she was near Thanh, she didn't know why her heart felt so heavy, as if there was an invisible curtain between them that she dared not lift. Was it possible that deep down, she was holding onto something she couldn't speak of—an ambiguous feeling she herself didn't dare to face?
That afternoon, the sky was still tinged with gray. Although the road was drier after the rain, the heavy clouds overhead warned that another sudden storm could arrive at any moment. Quyen walked faster, anxious to make sure Ngoc and baby Tien were all right.
Stepping into the small wooden house, she immediately saw Ngoc leaning against a pillow, her face weary but lighting up at the sight of her.
"You're back?"
"Yes, I'm fine. The school is okay for now, just a few leaks. How are you?"
Ngoc smiled gently, her eyes scanning Quyen's face, as if trying to see into the thoughts she kept hidden.
"I'm tired, but I'm okay. Tien just fell asleep a little while ago."
Quyen smiled and walked over to the bed, gently helping Ngoc lie down more comfortably and pulling the blanket up for her. In a corner of the house, Thanh was bent over his record books, seeming to concentrate but occasionally glancing at his wife and child with a look of deep affection.
She turned her gaze to baby Tien. The air was cooler after the rain, and the child was sleeping soundly, his cheeks flushed pink, his breathing soft and even. Looking at the scene before her, Quyen's heart suddenly felt heavy.
A small family, warm and complete. But she—no matter how often she visited, no matter how much she shared in their joys and sorrows, no matter how close she was—would always be a guest. A companion, a witness.
And perhaps, nothing more.
The thought made her freeze. She suddenly remembered herself, years ago, promising that she would live a meaningful life, dedicating herself to her students and this border region, instead of chasing distant dreams. Yet now, standing before this simple happiness, she felt as if she were trying to let go of something her heart had never truly been willing to forget.
Quyen took a deep breath and turned to Ngoc, her voice soft.
"Just rest, I'm here. Let me boil some water for you to wash up, you'll feel less tired."
Ngoc nodded slightly, her thin hand gripping Quyen's in a warm, firm grasp. In that moment, the space between them filled with an intimacy that needed no words, as if they understood each other completely.
But deep in her heart, Quyen knew there was something she could not yet admit to herself. The undercurrent in her heart—that sense of precariousness, of shyness whenever she looked at Thanh—she did not know how to soothe it.
It just… wasn't the time to face it.
It wasn't the time for anyone to unravel her hidden struggles, her tangled desires and shame. Here in the high mountains, life went on with its daily worries, its unpredictable rains, and the sudden challenges that lay ahead. And perhaps, on some stormy day, each of them would find a new path, a fissure that would reveal the secrets they had tried so hard to bury.
For now, Quyen could only offer a gentle smile, pretending nothing was amiss. She placed a hand on Ngoc's forehead, her voice kind.
"Get some sleep. I'll make some hot soup and wake you when it's ready."
Outside, the sun was setting, casting a pale orange glow on the wooden walls. Inside the small house, the baby's soft breathing mingled with the rustle of Thanh turning the pages of his book. From a distance, the sound of a stream trickled down the hillside, a familiar melody of the highlands—placid, yet carrying undercurrents waiting for their day to be revealed.