The afternoon faded with the familiar tranquility of the highland boarding school. Rows of classrooms with their old tin roofs stood silent, casting long shadows on the hillside, quiet witnesses to countless seasons of sun and rain. The evening wind slipped through the cracks in the window frames, gently turning the pages of lesson plans left on a scarred wooden desk. In her small room, Quyen was still bent over a stack of exam papers, her red pen moving swiftly across the students' immature handwriting. Before her, amidst the schoolwork, lay thick stacks of record books and lesson plans, forming the familiar portrait of a teacher's life in the highlands.
A few times, like many other teachers, she had thought about transferring back to the lowlands, or at least to the district center where living conditions were easier. But in the end, she stayed. This land, with its muddy trails, its biting cold winds, and the smudged, bright faces of her students, had somehow become a part of her very being.
Quyen's circumstances were more unique than most. Her father had passed away early, leaving her mother to raise her alone through hardship. But given their family's finances at the time, she couldn't request a position at a school closer to home to care for her mother. There were times she considered leaving the profession, finding another job to ease the burden, but whenever she mentioned it, a shadow of sadness would cross her mother's eyes. On the rare occasions she returned home, she saw how happy her mother was. In her mother's gaze, she read the pride as she boasted to the neighbors that her daughter was a teacher. "My Quyen teaches in the highlands. It's hard, but she loves the children," her mother would say, her voice trembling slightly. It was that look in her mother's eyes that had kept her here.
But then, her mother passed away. She only made it back in time to see the coffin being lifted. Her feet felt rooted to the ground, her vision blurred by a grief that choked her. She never got to say a final word, never got to hold her mother one last time. That pain, like an invisible scar, still throbbed whenever she remembered those days.
With over a decade dedicated to the highlands, she had grown accustomed to the piercing winter cold, the persistent rains that turned paths to sludge, and the sun that scorched her skin on the trail to school. She was used to simple meals of salty dried fish and boiled vegetables, used to the craving for a fragrant bowl of starfruit soup with fish from her hometown, a taste she hadn't experienced in so long. But despite the hardships, she never felt alone. Here, she had Thanh and Ngoc—two people she considered her own siblings, who had shared every difficulty with her since their first uncertain days teaching in the highlands. She loved the sincerity of the local people and her students, loved the clear, bright eyes of the children when they called her by the simple name: "Cô Quyên" (Miss Quyen).
Now, Thanh had become one of the school's core teachers, recommended for a higher position. And Ngoc, after giving birth to little Tiên, was busier than ever with her two young children. She rarely left the village, focusing only on teaching and caring for her family. Quyen, as the older sister figure, always watched over them, but every time she saw Ngoc busy soothing Son or Thanh carefully holding Tiên, an indescribable emptiness would settle in her heart.
She set her pen down and glanced out the window. The sky was changing colors, a pale violet mixed with the last orange embers of the late afternoon sun. The scene was beautiful and peaceful, but it also made her heart sink. Tonight would pass just like any other—alone in her cramped room, with the howling wind and the heavy weight of loneliness.
Quyen closed the classroom door and stepped into the schoolyard, now sparsely dotted with students. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, stretching her shadow long and thin across the dirt ground. Under the old canistel tree, Thanh was stacking books into a wooden crate, preparing to move them to the school's storage room. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and offered his familiar smile.
"Done for the day, Quyen?" he asked sincerely. "We're busy at home today, Ngoc has her hands full with the two kids, so she probably couldn't make it to school. Why don't you come over for dinner with us?"
Quyen shook her head gently, her voice soft. "No, I have some things to do. Besides, your house is so full of life, I'd feel like an intruder. I'll stop by when I have more time."
Thanh nodded, not pressing the matter. He understood Quyen better than anyone. Though she loved him and his wife like her own siblings, she always kept a certain distance, a habit that was hard to break. She didn't want to impose on any family, didn't want to intrude on their cozy meals, not even for a moment of intimacy.
The two walked out of the schoolyard together. At the gate, Thanh suddenly remembered something and turned to her. "The provincial award ceremony for outstanding teachers is coming up. You'll be invited for sure. I already heard the news, Quyen."
Quyen managed a faint smile, but it felt forced. "Yes, I heard. But Ngoc isn't going this time?"
Thanh sighed and shook his head. "She wanted to, but Tiên is still too young, and Son is a handful. There's no one to watch them. So I'll represent the school, along with a few other teachers."
Quyen nodded, saying noncommittally, "That's fine. You and the others should go. I'd rather not, but I suppose I have to attend. I can't be absent from the school's award ceremony."
Thanh laughed and patted her shoulder gently. "Of course, you have to go! Everyone recognizes your hard work over the years."
She only offered a slight smile, then said goodbye to Thanh and turned toward the dorms for single teachers. The dusk deepened, pulling a thin veil of mist over the mountainside. The highland wind rustled through the path, making her clothes flutter.
She walked slowly, her heart heavy with a nameless sense of being adrift. It wasn't that she wasn't proud of being honored, of seeing generations of students grow under her guidance. But sometimes, she couldn't help but ask herself: "After all the accolades, all the titles, what do I really have left?"
Her colleagues all had families, busy with their children, with their own small joys. But she, now in her forties, was still alone. She stood at the midpoint of her life, as unsteady as the winding mountain path beneath her feet. In the distance, the first lights flickered on in the houses nestled in the valley, carrying with them the sound of laughter from family dinners, the babble of children calling for their mothers—the sounds of a home she could never belong to.
She clutched her woolen sweater tighter and quickened her pace toward her room. Inside the cramped space, the small fire in the corner stove flickered, radiating a feeble warmth against the cold night. Quyen silently washed the rice, rinsed the vegetables, and set out a simple dinner: a bowl of white rice, a plate of boiled greens, and some preserved fish she had bought hastily at the village market. The crackling of the firewood filled the empty space but couldn't dispel the loneliness that clung to her.
She had once dreamed of having a man sitting by the fire with her, talking about trivial things, tasting the food as she seasoned it. Someone to be with when night fell, so she wouldn't have to face the silent darkness alone. She had loved, had been happy with the small things—a thoughtful question, a caring gesture. But the men had come and gone, leaving behind scratches on her heart, not deep, but painful enough to sting whenever she touched them.
The first was a widowed woodsman who lived nearby. He had pursued her with solid promises: "I'm like an ironwood tree, I can shelter you!" At first, she was moved. He was honest, strong, unrefined but sincere. But then she realized he was coarse, a heavy drinker, and often yelled at his young child. One time, he showed up at the school reeking of alcohol and slurred, "Teacher, marry me. What woman up here is better than you?" She stood frozen, a wave of humiliation choking her. From then on, she cut off all contact, and later heard he had married a younger, more submissive woman.
The second was a border patrol soldier, tall and handsome, with a bright smile and a rugged charm. He once brought her a pair of woolen gloves when it was cold and gifted her a light blue scarf for her birthday. She thought he was the one she had been waiting for. But then, she heard he had made similar promises to other girls. One evening, she saw him walking hand-in-hand with a young woman after the market, whispering something to her, just as he had once done with her. She turned away, not waiting to be hurt. The next morning, when he came to see her, she simply said, "Don't come here anymore." He shrugged, a faint smirk on his face. "As you wish, teacher."
But the real hurt came at a party later. After a few drinks, he approached her, his breath heavy with alcohol, his tone suggestive. "Quyen, you don't have to be so proud. An unmarried woman of your age up here, who's better than me?" Without hesitation, she slapped him across the face, her voice like ice. "Don't make that mistake." She left amidst the stunned silence of everyone there, her heart not sad, only thankful she had seen his true colors.
After that, Quyen no longer opened her heart to anyone. She buried herself in her work, in her children, in Thanh and Ngoc. She feared loneliness, but she also feared being hurt again. And so, she was trapped between two fears, with no clear way out.
There were mornings when she would walk into her classroom and find her students gathered excitedly, their faces beaming as if about to share a great secret. In their hands were rustic gifts: a dozen dirt-dusted wild chicken eggs, bunches of ripe yellow bananas, a jar of thick, golden honey. "Miss, my dad said these eggs are delicious, you should eat them to stay healthy!" one child said, eyes sparkling. "These bananas are from our garden, ripened on the tree!" another grinned. "My mom collected this honey from the forest, it will help your cough!" a little girl chirped, clutching the honey jar.
Quyen looked at the gifts, her heart suddenly warm. In this poor highland region, no one had much to give, yet they still shared what was most precious. She ruffled the children's hair and smiled. "Thank you, my dears. I will cherish this." The children laughed, chattering away, as if her happiness was their own. Moments like these made Quyen understand that no matter how difficult life was, sincere affection could always warm the heart.
She also asked friends to donate old books so the children would have more to read. Watching them engrossed in the worn pages, she felt a sense of peace. Happiness, sometimes, was as simple as that.
In recent days, the school had been buzzing with excitement. The news that Thanh was being promoted and that a group of teachers was going to the provincial capital to receive awards had everyone thrilled. But watching her colleagues chat excitedly, Quyen felt an emptiness inside.
The night before the trip, she sat alone in her room, staring at the dim lamp on her desk. She thought about the life she had lived, the years dedicated to the children, the awards hanging on her wall. She had once thought she could live quietly like this for the rest of her days—teaching, bonding with her students, being alone was fine. But lately, she often dreamed of holding a child, hearing it call out in a reedy voice, "Mama!"
Seeing Thanh hold little Tiên, or Ngoc soothe Son, a pang of longing twisted in her heart. She wanted to be a mother. But in her forties, she knew the chance of having her own child was fading. "Will I die old, with no children, no family?" The thought kept her awake many nights. She yearned for a child, even an adopted one, so that when night fell, she would no longer feel so lost.
In that desperate yearning, a strange idea flickered to life. She thought of Thanh—the younger brother she had always trusted, the one who had weathered so many storms with her. She remembered the times Thanh had looked at her with warm eyes, as if he understood all the pain she kept hidden. She wondered: was there a way for her and Thanh, even for just a moment, to share something deeper—a bond, a home?
The thought startled her, her heart pounding. It felt both foreign and familiar, like a faint light in the darkness. She didn't know where this idea would lead, but it gave her a sliver of hope, however fragile. She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks lull her to sleep. In her dream, she was holding a child, hearing it call "Mama," and for the first time, that dream had no tears.