The highland night was piercingly cold. The wind howled through the cracks in the wooden door, carrying the dank smell of the forest and dew-drenched leaves. Inside the small room, Quyen sat listlessly on the edge of the bed, her weary eyes staring into the flickering darkness. The weak light from the oil lamp on the wall was only enough to cast trembling, amorphous shadows, making everything feel as hazy as the thoughts entangling her mind. The incessant chirping of insects outside mingled with the howling wind, creating a monotonous, lingering symphony that seemed to carve deeper into her sorrow.
Beside her, Ngoc lay delirious on the bed, her face a pale white, her breathing faint. The thin blanket covering her trembled with each feverish shiver, as if her own body were fighting an invisible storm. Thanh, his face gaunt, fussed about, changing the cold compress on his wife's forehead, then gently shaking her whenever she drifted off for too long. Little Son, though lulled to sleep, would stir from time to time with a choked cry, making the air in the small house feel even heavier. Quyen held the boy in her arms, patting him gently, but her gaze never left Ngoc. She had never felt so helpless.
She had always thought of herself as strong. At the teachers' council, she was the one who stood up for their rights, the one who was unafraid to speak out against injustice. But now, seeing Ngoc so depleted, Thanh trembling with worry, and little Son crying for his mother, Quyen felt a bitter lump form in her throat. She wanted to offer a word of comfort, to do something to soothe her friends' pain, but all words felt hollow. Because deep down, she knew that a life had been prevented from ever drawing its first breath. Though they called it a "menstrual regulation," a "resolution," or "early handling," the truth remained immutable. Words could lighten the weight of a stone in one's heart, but they could not hide the wound that was now seared into it.
That day, after Thanh had brought Ngoc back from the clinic, a somber gloom had descended upon their small home. Quyen had been there, standing silently by the bed, watching Ngoc lie motionless, her body drenched in sweat, her hand unconsciously clutching the thin blanket. Her face was ashen, her eyes dull, occasionally fluttering open as if trying to wake, only to slip away again. Her soft moans mixed with Son's sharp cries, echoing in the cramped room like a tragic melody no one wanted to hear.
Thanh busied himself, mixing warm water and feeding his wife spoonfuls of thin porridge, his hands trembling so much that a few drops spilled onto the old blanket. He said nothing, his eyes fixed on Ngoc, heavy with worry and helplessness. Little Son, though only a year old, seemed to sense the unease. He cried persistently, his tiny hands flailing in the air as if searching for his mother's warmth. But Ngoc couldn't soothe her child. She had no strength left.
Quyen sat beside her, holding Ngoc's hand and feeling the chill of her skin. She wanted to say something, but every time she tried, a wave of emotion would rise and choke the thought. She could only take over for Thanh, caring for Son, patting him, and praying that Ngoc would soon recover. But in her heart, she knew this pain wasn't just physical. It was a deeper, invisible wound that no medicine could heal.
Outside, the mountain wind shrieked through the door cracks, carrying the biting cold of the highland night. The firewood crackled in the kitchen, but the small flame's warmth could not dispel the somber atmosphere. Quyen looked around the room: the neatly stacked jars of millet, the stove with a few half-burnt logs, and the simple bamboo cradle where Son now slept. Everything was familiar, yet today, it was all cast in a sorrowful light, as if the house itself were sharing in the grief of its inhabitants.
In the aftermath of that event, Quyen began to pay more attention to Dr. Tươi. She recalled her visits to the clinic, the times she had witnessed Tươi complete a "procedure." The woman always maintained a professional, untroubled demeanor. She would accept a thick envelope of cash from a patient with indifferent eyes, her lips still curved in a gentle smile, as if it were a normal transaction. What sent a chill down Quyen's spine was that many people even thanked Tươi profusely, as if they were genuinely grateful for her "skillful hands." "At least it's discreet, safe, and leaves no consequences," they would say. A mistake could be rectified with money and a quick procedure. And that would be the end of it.
But for Quyen, it was not the end. She couldn't forget Ngoc's red-rimmed eyes, Thanh's stunned expression, or the sound of Son's cries that night. She couldn't forget the image of another expectant mother she had seen at the clinic, a young woman clutching her belly, silent tears streaming down her face, while her husband tremulously handed an envelope to Tươi. "Thank you, doctor… thank you for helping us…" the man's voice trailed off, like someone who had just lost something priceless. Tươi had merely nodded, her smile unchanged, as if the suffering of others were just another part of her job.
A coldness spread through Quyen. What haunted her wasn't just the unborn lives that had vanished, but the terrifying composure of those involved. For Tươi, it was just a procedure, a service, a price paid to erase an unwanted mark. For those who sought her out, it was a temporary escape from life's pressures. But for Quyen, it was an unhealable wound, a nameless grief. Every time she thought of Ngoc, of Thanh's trembling hands, and of Son's cries, she knew something had been lost forever—something that no one could ever get back.
Late at night, in the dark room, Quyen shut her eyes, biting her lip to stop a sob. Memories surged like an undercurrent, crashing against her mind without warning. The image of Ngoc delirious, Thanh worried sick, and Son crying for his mother—it all replayed in slow motion, making her heart ache. She didn't hate Thanh and Ngoc. Not at all. She understood the pressure they faced—the daily grind, the burden of a child, the endless worries that piled up in this poor, mountainous region. They weren't irresponsible people, just small souls struggling to survive.
She also knew she had no right to judge. She had never been married, never experienced the anxiety of diapers and milk, never had to toil to raise a child. What right did she have to say they were wrong? But no matter how much she understood, how much she sympathized, she couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. Guilt for her own silence.
She had been silent for fear of causing offense. Silent for fear of meddling too deeply in Ngoc's family matters. Silent for fear of confronting Dr. Tươi—a woman whose husband was a local official, a woman whose activities everyone knew about but no one dared to challenge. She had chosen the safest path: to stand aside and let fate run its course. "Was this the price for keeping the peace?" The question echoed in her head again and again. She told herself, "It was their decision. I had no right to force them to do otherwise." But every time she thought of the tiny life that never had a chance to cry, she felt her heart clench.
Quyen remembered her first days at the school, when she, Thanh, and Ngoc were full of passion. They had overcome so many hardships together, from the dilapidated schoolhouse to the bone-chilling winter nights. They had promised to be each other's support, like a family bound by something other than blood. But now, when Ngoc and Thanh faced one of their most painful decisions, she had chosen silence. She wondered: was their friendship, their bond, truly deep enough if she didn't dare to speak up when they needed it most?
The howling wind rattled the wooden window frame. Quyen turned over, trying to force herself to sleep, but a faint sound in her half-dreaming state startled her. The cry of a baby, small, weak, and indistinct, as if from a great distance. She opened her eyes, gasping, tears clinging to her lashes. Her body felt frozen, only her heart was pounding.
She scanned the dark room, and her eyes fell on a familiar corner—the hook full of baby clothes. Tiny outfits in bright colors and playful patterns that Ngoc had sewn for Son. Every stitch, every neatly fastened button, seemed to hold a mother's love. But to Quyen, they were a painful reminder. Another child had departed without ever getting to wear clothes like these.
She quickly wiped away a tear, but the memory of that night returned with stark clarity. Ngoc, lost in delirium, clutching the blanket, her choked sobs rising between feverish spells. Thanh, fumbling and trembling, not knowing what to do besides changing the cold compress and spooning porridge. Son, wailing, his cries tearing through the quiet house. Quyen had sat there, holding him, her eyes fixed on Ngoc. She had wanted to do something, anything, but she was powerless.
Her breathing came in short, difficult gasps, like a mountain climber struggling for air. "Was that the price for preserving a family's happiness?" The question tormented her again. She thought of Ngoc and Thanh now. Little Tiên had been born, and their family continued, even if life remained precarious. They seemed happy, but was that happiness truly whole? Would the innocent soul of that lost child forgive its parents' choice? Would it forgive the silence of the woman who claimed to love them so dearly?
Quyen felt trapped in a labyrinth with no exit. On one side was her understanding for Thanh and Ngoc—the people she considered family. On the other was the pain of thinking about the life that had been extinguished. Caught in the middle, she felt the heavy, fluttering beat of her own heart.
In the following days, Ngoc gradually recovered, but she was no longer the same. Her smiles were forced, her gaze often distant, as if searching for something lost. Thanh tried to make up for it by being more attentive to his wife and child, but the silence between them grew thicker, an invisible wall separating them. Quyen, as their closest friend, tried to be there for Ngoc, but every time she looked into her eyes, she saw the reflection of the silence she herself had chosen.
She returned to school, stood before her class, and looked at the smudged faces and clear eyes of her students. She wondered: did these children know that their lives, and their parents' lives, were constantly weighed down by choices no one ever wanted to make? She thought of Dr. Tươi, of her artificial smile, and felt a quiet anger rise within her. But the anger was quickly extinguished by helplessness. She had no right, no power to change anything.
She remembered once seeing Tươi at the market. The woman was as gentle as ever, chatting with the locals in her sweet voice, as if the envelopes of money and the "procedures" in the dark never existed. Quyen stood at a distance, watching Tươi, and felt an insurmountable gap between them. She wanted to walk over, to ask Tươi if she ever thought about the wounds she left behind, but in the end, she just turned and quietly left the market. Silence, once again, had won.
As the night deepened, the wind grew colder, seeping into her very soul. Quyen took a deep breath, telling herself she had to sleep to save her strength. Tomorrow, she had a class to teach, countless tasks to attend to. But as soon as she closed her eyes, the haunting images returned. The incessant chirping of insects outside felt like thousands of needles pricking at her consciousness. She saw Ngoc in her fever, Dr. Tươi accepting the envelope, and the trembling hands that gave and received. It all seemed to mock her courage.
Finally, when exhaustion completely overwhelmed her, Quyen drifted into a fitful sleep. In her dream, she saw tiny baby clothes swaying on a line, drenched in rain, lifeless and still. It was hard to tell if it was real or a dream, but she knew one thing for certain: the stabbing pain in her chest was still there, like an invisible blade twisting deep inside.
Dawn broke with the crow of a wild rooster from afar. Quyen blinked, waking to the dampness of tears on her pillow. She sat up and looked through the cracks in the wooden door, seeing the faint light of dawn filtering through the mist, painting the mountainside a pale pink. The eternal question returned: "Am I to blame for not speaking up?"
She had no answer. But in that moment, she thought of little Tiên—the child who had brought a fragile light back to Thanh and Ngoc's family. She thought of her students, their bright eyes waiting for her each morning. And she told herself that even if the past could not be changed, she could still choose how to face the present. She would stay by Ngoc's side, hold her hand, and not let that silence be repeated.
Quyen stood up, pulled the thin blanket from her body, and stepped out onto the porch. The frigid air filled her lungs, but this time, she felt a tiny spark of light within her—the light of determination, however faint, that she would not let this pain rule her forever. She would find a way to speak, even if it were just to Ngoc, even if it were just a belated apology. And perhaps, in some moment to come, she would find a way to forgive herself.
She took another deep breath, letting the cold awaken her senses. A new day was beginning, and though the past was a heavy burden, she knew she had to move forward—for the ones she loved, and for the heart that was still beating in her chest.