Since that night, An found herself thinking of Minh more often not because of the things he said, but because of how he had sat silently beside her, as if his presence alone was a rare kind of comfort. He didn't reach out, didn't overwhelm, just quietly seeped into her thoughts. She didn't try to dwell on it, and yet she caught herself unconsciously searching for his familiar figure in the corner of the room, or tuning into the soft cadence of his voice during passing conversations. There was something in his gaze, in the quiet spaces between his words, that made her feel seen truly seen without being scrutinized.
The following days passed like the slow turning of pages in a breeze. An returned to her routine still writing quietly, still drinking tea, still reading by the window. But something within her had begun to shift, faintly, irresistibly. It wasn't quite love, nor was it longing. It felt more like a distant melody softly playing somewhere just out of reach, enough to remind her that she was no longer surrounded by perfect silence.
That night, when the city was deep in sleep and only the hush of wind passed through the trees, An dreamed. In the dream, she stood at a train station, where warm yellow lights stretched across the platform like threads tying the past and present together. A distant whistle echoed through the air, blending with the shuffling footsteps and murmurs of strangers. Then, she heard her name "An" called out clearly, with a voice achingly familiar. She turned.
It was Khánh.
He stood at the far end of the platform, his face gentle in the slanting light, just as she remembered. He reached out a hand, as if all that had once broken between them might be mended in a single step.
An began to walk toward him, each footfall quiet and hesitant, as though she might wake something fragile. But as she drew closer just a breath away he turned.
And it wasn't Khánh.
It was Minh.
He said nothing. He simply looked at her with eyes that held something entirely different not the gaze of someone who comes and goes, but of someone who stays. From somewhere behind them, a song began to play. No words, just a melody beautiful and sad, like a lullaby lost to time. She stepped back, confused. The dream blurred, softened like smoke, and she woke up in the pale dark, her heart still trembling from emotions she couldn't name.
She sat up, back resting against the wall, listening to her own breathing. Outside, dawn hadn't yet arrived, but the night had already begun to pale, surrendering to a gentle blue. An touched her chest, where her heart still beat softly, as if afraid of being heard.
She didn't know what she was feeling. The dream hadn't been like the others. It wasn't simply about Khánh, nor was it a yearning for someone new. It felt as though two worlds old and new had brushed against each other in a fleeting moment, and left her unsure of where one ended and the other began.
She stayed there for a long time, then slowly stepped onto the balcony. Morning mist clung to the paper flowers, and the birds had just begun calling to one another. She wasn't thinking of Khánh anymore. She was thinking of Minh. Not because he had replaced anyone, but because he had been there fully, quietly, without claiming anything. She wondered, if the moment on that station had been real, would she have stepped forward, or turned away?
And then, very softly like the final note of the song from her dream she understood: some sorrows no longer call our name, and some tender feelings need no name at all. All it takes is presence, like a song echoing through a silent night, just enough to remind the heart it's not entirely alone in its quietness.