They left Kim Mới’s house just before midday.
No one was in a hurry to start their engines.
Kim Mới walked with them as far as the gate, Khánh Băng holding one hand and Thọng Hiếu the other.
Liên removed her helmet. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Kim Mới gently shook her head. “You’ve already done more than enough.”
For a moment, the two women simply looked at one another.
Neither had chosen to meet like this. Yet both understood that their lives would remain connected from that day forward.
Mr Hoàng started his old Honda. “We should leave.”
Kim Mới nodded. “My parents-in-law will be waiting.”
Juan looked at her.
“They know we’re coming?”
“I telephoned them while you were outside.”
She paused.
“I didn’t tell them why. I only said that some friends from the Mekong wanted to visit.”
Mr Hoàng smiled.
“That was wise.”
Kim Mới looked towards Liên.
“I think they should hear the rest from her.”
Liên lowered her eyes.
“I hope I can.”
“You can,” Kim Mới replied quietly. “You only have to tell them what you told me.”
Nothing more needed to be said.
One by one, the motorcycles pulled away from the house. Kim Mới and the children remained at the gate, watching until the group disappeared beyond the bend in the road.
The journey to Mỹ Tú was considerably longer.
Leaving Châu Thành A behind, they followed National Highway 1 before turning southeast towards Sóc Trăng Province. The road gradually became quieter. Rice fields stretched away on either side, and narrow canals reflected the midday sun.
Juan rode behind Vincent, saying very little.
He remembered the stories Phong used to tell during slow afternoons at the Mekong. How he would leave before sunrise to help his parents gather vegetables and fruit. How, once everything had been loaded onto the motorcycle, he would deliver the produce to restaurants in Cần Thơ before changing into his work clothes and beginning another shift.
At the time, everyone had admired his energy.
Now they understood the sacrifice behind it.
After almost an hour and a half, Mr Hoàng slowed his Honda and pointed towards a narrower concrete road bordered by banana trees and small vegetable plots.
“We’re almost there.”
No one answered.
They all knew that this visit would be different.
Kim Mới had wanted answers.
Phong’s parents had never stopped believing he would return.
Those two things were not the same.
Ahead, beyond a line of coconut palms, the roof of a familiar house came into view.
Mr Hoàng eased off the throttle.
“Welcome to Mỹ Tú,” he said quietly.
The motorcycles came to a stop beneath the shade of two large mango trees.
For a few moments, no one removed their helmets. The only sounds were the ticking of the cooling engines and the distant calls of birds from the rice fields.
Mr Hoàng was the first to climb off his Honda.
He looked towards the house.
Juan followed his gaze.
The familiar wooden gate stood open. Beyond it, neat vegetable beds stretched alongside the narrow path leading to the house. Bamboo poles supported climbing beans, while banana trees moved gently in the afternoon breeze.
Nothing suggested that a year had passed.
Mr Hoàng opened the gate.
“Come.”
They walked slowly towards the house.
Before anyone could reach the steps, the door opened.
An elderly woman stepped outside.
She stopped immediately.
“Anh Hoàng…”
Her voice carried both surprise and warmth.
Mr Hoàng bowed his head respectfully.
“Chào cô.”
She smiled.
“You should have told us you were coming.”
“I wanted to. But I thought it would be better to explain everything in person.”
Only then did she notice the others.
Russell.
Laurent.
Juan.
Vincent.
Aaron H.
And finally Liên.
The young woman stood slightly behind the group, almost as though she wished to remain unnoticed.
Phong’s mother looked at her for a moment.
Then back at Mr Hoàng.
“Who is she?”
Before he could answer, another figure appeared in the doorway.
Phong’s father.
He looked much as Juan remembered him. Older, perhaps, but still straight-backed, still calm, still carrying the quiet dignity that had always impressed those who knew him.
He greeted each visitor with a polite nod.
Then his eyes settled on Liên.
“You’ve come a long way.”
Liên lowered her head respectfully.
“Yes, sir.”
He studied her for another moment.
Then stepped aside.
“Please… come inside.”
The sitting room was cool despite the afternoon heat.
Everything seemed unchanged.
The polished wooden furniture.
The family photographs.
The faint scent of incense.
Juan’s eyes instinctively moved towards the family altar.
It stood where Phong had once described it. Images of Đức Mẹ La Vang and Phanxicô Xaviê Trương Bửu Diệp occupied the upper tier.
To one side stood the small Buddha that Phong’s mother faithfully tended.
Fresh incense burned before both.
And beside them…
there was still an empty space.
No photograph had been placed there.
Juan remembered Phong’s father’s words from the previous year.
“He is not dead.”
Nothing in this house suggested that he had changed his mind.
The old man noticed where Juan was looking.
Without saying anything, he gave the slightest nod.
Juan understood.
Hope still lived here.
Whatever had happened during the past year, that had not changed.
Footsteps sounded from the rear of the house.
A tall man entered carrying a basket of freshly harvested vegetables.
He stopped when he saw the visitors.
“Dũng,” Mr Hoàng said quietly.
The elder brother placed the basket on the floor.
His eyes moved slowly from one face to another.
Finally, they rested on Liên.
Something in her expression made him realise immediately that this was no ordinary visit.
Phong’s mother disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned carrying a tray with green tea and freshly cut fruit from the garden.
She poured the tea.
Only when everyone had a cup in front of them did Phong’s father look towards Mr Hoàng.
“You said there was something important you wished to tell us.”
“There is.”
Mr Hoàng paused.
“But I think Liên should be the one to tell you.”
The old man turned towards her.
His expression remained calm.
There was neither anxiety nor expectation.
Only quiet attention.
Liên clasped her hands together.
“I don’t know whether what I can tell you will help.”
Phong’s mother answered quietly.
“If you knew our son… it will help.”
Liên nodded.
“I met him on the day he was taken.”
Dũng leaned forward slightly.
“The same day?”
“Yes.”
“We were strangers. They brought him to the vehicle after I was already inside.”
Phong’s father listened without interrupting.
Liên continued.
“We spoke only a little. But after a while, it no longer mattered that we had only just met.”
“He behaved as though he already knew everyone.”
A faint smile crossed Dũng’s face.
Liên returned the smile.
“He made frightened people feel less frightened.”
“He shared what little water he had.”
“And whenever someone lost hope… he tried to give some of his own.”
Phong’s mother quietly wiped her eyes.
“He has always been like that.”
“Even as a little boy.”
No one spoke for a few moments.
The silence was gentle rather than heavy.
Liên continued.
“Late that night, the guards began arguing.”
“I couldn’t understand everything.”
“But I remember one sentence.”
She looked at the family before repeating it.
“The other side pays double.”
Dũng frowned.
“What did they mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“I only knew they were talking about us. About who would be taken where.”
She lowered her eyes.
“After that, everything happened very quickly.”
“They separated us.”
“I never saw Phong again.”
No one moved.
After a long silence, Phong’s father asked:
“When they took you away… how did he look?”
Liên did not need time to think.
“He was afraid.”
She paused.
“As we all were.”
“But he wasn’t thinking about himself.”
“He was watching. Trying to understand. Looking for an opportunity.”
Dũng slowly nodded.
“Yes.”
Phong’s father looked down at his teacup.
“I knew… he would not have stopped trying.”
No one contradicted him.
No one could.
The afternoon light shifted slowly across the wooden floor.
Phong’s mother quietly refilled everyone’s teacup.
At last, Phong’s father looked towards Liên.
“There is one thing I would like to ask.”
“Of course.”
“When you and Phong first realised that something was wrong… did he have any idea where you were?”
Liên shook her head.
“Not at first. We thought we were going to a job. A good job, or at least that was what we had been told.”
“And when did you realise that it wasn’t?”
“It happened slowly. At first, it was only the way the men spoke to us. Then the way they watched us. They stopped answering our questions. We began to understand that we had been deceived.”
The old man nodded.
“And Phong?”
“He was trying to work things out. He watched everything. He listened carefully whenever the guards spoke. He kept looking for clues.”
“Did he mention any places?”
Liên thought for a moment.
“He remembered the bánh mì. It was wrapped in cheap greaseproof paper, stamped in faded red ink: Chợ Phú Vĩnh, Tân Châu, An Giang.”
Dũng leaned forward.
“Did he say anything else?”
“He remembered Châu Đốc. And Long Châu. He thought it must have come from somewhere between the two.”
“And the church?”
Liên nodded.
“He remembered Nhà thờ Giáo xứ Phú Vĩnh. He said he had been there years before, for a wedding. He remembered a duck farm near the Vĩnh An canal.”
The old man was silent for a moment.
“So he knew where the bánh mì had come from?”
“Perhaps. But he didn’t know where we were. Not for certain.”
Dũng looked at her.
“Did he ever mention names?”
“No.”
“Anything else that might tell us where they were taking you?”
Liên shook her head.
“The only thing he seemed certain about was that they didn’t want us to know where we were.”
Dũng finally spoke.
“I’ve often wondered whether he realised how much we were looking for him.”
Liên answered without hesitation.
“I’m certain he did.”
Everyone looked at her.
“He spoke very little about himself. But when they were about to separate us… I had the feeling he was thinking about someone.”
“Not himself.”
“Someone waiting.”
Phong’s mother lowered her eyes.
“We never stopped.”
Her husband gently placed his hand over hers.
“No.”
“We never will.”
Juan noticed that no one in the room spoke of funerals, mourning or endings.
Only waiting.
Only hope.
After a while, Phong’s father stood.
“Come with me.”
They followed him outside.
He led them past the vegetable garden to a small orchard.
Mango.
Pomelo.
Jackfruit.
Rows of chilli plants bordered one side of the path.
The old man stopped beside a young durian tree.
“Phong planted this.”
Dũng smiled faintly.
“The year before he disappeared.”
“He said we’d have to wait several years before it gave fruit.”
His father rested a hand gently against the trunk.
“We’re still waiting.”
Nobody failed to understand the meaning behind those words.
Liên looked at the tree for a long moment.
“I think he would have liked this place.”
Phong’s mother smiled through her tears.
“He loved it.”
“Whenever he came home, he’d always walk through the garden before he left again.”
“He’d check every tree. Every vegetable.”
“As though he wanted to make sure everything would be all right until he came back.”
Mr Hoàng looked across the orchard.
“He never wasted a journey.”
“No,” Dũng agreed.
“If he came to Mỹ Tú, it was to help.”
“If he went to Châu Thành A, it was to be with Kim Mới and the children.”
Juan thought of the countless afternoons when Phong had arrived at the Mekong already tired, yet always smiling.
Only now did he fully appreciate how much travelling, working and caring for others had filled his life.
As they walked back towards the house, Phong’s father stopped once more.
He turned to Liên.
“Thank you.”
Liên looked surprised.
“I wish I could have brought you more.”
The old man gently shook his head.
“You brought us the truth.”
He paused.
“Not all of it.”
“But the part that only you could bring.”
Liên bowed her head.
“I’ll never forget him.”
The old man smiled.
“Neither will we.”
Behind them, the afternoon breeze moved softly through the orchard Phong had planted with his own hands.
The trees continued to grow.
The seasons continued to change.
And somewhere beyond the quiet fields of Mỹ Tú, the answers they were still searching for waited patiently for their time to be found.