Chapter 36: The Woman Who Came Back
“Your eyes have never stopped hoping.”
Khai Minh’s hands curled into fists.
“And what exactly do you see in the eyes of a blind man?”
“It’s not about seeing.”
Hoa’s answer came evenly.
“It’s about knowing. Your aunt, Mai Ngoc, once spoke with
the doctors.”
Khai Minh said nothing. He tilted his head, sifting
through every sound around him. No footsteps. No engine slowing to a stop. Even
so, he didn’t drop his guard.
“You disappeared for four years.”
“So did you.”
“Not the same thing.”
His voice had gone cold.
“I fell into a river. You chose to walk away.”
Hoa fell silent.
It was a while before she spoke again.
“You mean to have this conversation here?”
“This is the only place I know I’m safe.”
“Not anymore. The people tailing me have seen this area.
They may not be sure you’re here today, but sooner or later they’ll come back.”
“Then where do you want to take me?”
“Somewhere safer.”
Khai Minh let out a soft, humorless laugh.
“I was once taken somewhere safe. A hospital. They locked
me in Room 407. Then you rescued me, and I thought I was safe again, right up
until I had to throw myself into a river.”
Hoa froze mid-breath.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I used to trust a lot of people.”
Khai Minh’s fingers brushed the strip of cloth wound
around his wrist.
“Most of them are dead. The ones still breathing want me
dead.”
Hoa didn’t argue. She took a single step back.
“I won’t force you to come.”
“Then answer me here.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Hoa studied the man in front of her.
Four years ago, Khai Minh had still carried himself like
the young master of a great house, even locked inside a psychiatric ward. His
clothes had been rumpled, his body riddled with needle marks, but his back had
stayed straight, and every word he spoke had carried the arrogance of someone
life had never truly ground into the dirt.
The man standing before her now was someone else.
His hair hung long, tangled, filthy. His face had thinned
out, his skin burned dark by sun and wind. An old jacket swallowed his frame,
and his hands were a map of calluses and scars.
Hoa let out a slow breath.
“After you went into the river, Minh Quan’s people started
hunting me too. I had no choice but to leave Dong Cang.”
“How did you stay hidden?”
“I kept moving. Never contacted anyone I knew. During that
time, a research organization based overseas found me.”
“How did they know about you?”
“Because they’d been quietly watching the D-17 project
since before your parents died. They knew I’d worked at Vinh An and had ties to
the old files.”
Khai Minh angled his head slightly.
“The Truong Sinh Group?”
“No.”
Hoa went on.
“Not Truong Sinh. Not Vinh An either. Their headquarters
are abroad.”
The air between them thickened.
For four years, Khai Minh had listened to thousands of
news broadcasts, memorized hundreds of names, chased down every scrap of
information that touched Truong Sinh or Vinh An. Not once had he found a trace
of some other force circling D-17.
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know all of it.”
“You work for them without knowing what they want?”
“I know they’re studying D-17. I know they’re looking for
anyone who was ever exposed to the trial samples. I know they’ve been
harvesting Truong Sinh’s data for years.”
“And what don’t you know?”
“Their endgame.”
Khai Minh’s lip curled.
“Heh. They don’t sound so different from Truong Sinh.”
“I never said they were good people.”
“Then why did you come back here?”
Hoa looked him straight in the face.
“The organization sent me.”
“Then why come to see me at all?”
She didn’t answer. Khai Minh pressed on.
“And what hope is there in these eyes of mine?”
“Your medical records after the accident were altered.”
“I know that much.”
He had suspected long ago that the doctors were lying. But
suspicion, on its own, changed nothing.
“All you know is that the diagnosis can’t be trusted. I’ve
seen both versions of the file.”
Khai Minh turned fully toward her.
“One version recorded severe damage to the optic nerve,
but not total necrosis. The other went into the official record. It concluded
the entire nerve was dead. No indication for surgery.”
“Who signed it?”
“Doctor Tran Loi.”
“And who gave him the order?”
Hoa answered slowly.
“Mai Ngoc.”
Khai Minh stood nailed to the spot.
His aunt had sat at his bedside, clutching his hand,
weeping because he would never see again. She had hunted down the finest
doctors. She had sworn she would cure him no matter the cost.
And in the end, she was the one who ordered the file that
buried him in darkness.
“Where did you see it?”
“In an old backup of Vinh An’s data.”
“What are the odds it can be treated?”
“At this point, I don’t know.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“Would you rather I lie and promise you’ll see again?”
Khai Minh said nothing.
Hoa stepped closer, though she stopped just beyond his
reach.
“The damage to your optic nerve went
untreated—mistreated—for far too long. The window isn’t what it was. But the
tests from back then showed the nerve never fully died. I believe partial
recovery is still possible.”
“How much is partial?”
“Maybe just light and dark. Maybe shapes. If you respond
well enough, you might recognize faces.”
A dry laugh scraped out of him.
“After all these years, you came back to tell me I might
get to see a shadow?”
“It would still be light.”
“To you, maybe.”
His voice iced over.
Hoa let her gaze rest on him.
“You really have changed.”
“No. I’ve just gotten less stupid.”
Khai Minh turned, meaning to retreat deeper under the
bridge.
Hoa’s voice chased after him.
“Don’t you want to know where An Nhien is?”
The tip of his cane stopped dead against the ground.
His whole body locked up.
Four years of radio broadcasts. Thousands of names read
out over the air. Not once had the name Tran An Nhien been among them.
“You know where she is?”
“No.”
Khai Minh whipped around.
“Then don’t use her to keep me here.”
“All I know is that after what happened at Vinh An, An
Nhien and Dong vanished.”
“Vanished how?”
“No treatment records left at Vinh An. None of the old
staff know where they moved. The family house is standing empty. Everyone who
ever crossed paths with them says the two of them left Dong Cang in a hurry.”
“Are they alive or dead?”
“I don’t know.”
The silence stretched. Then Khai Minh asked, and the
question came out heavy with grief.
“Does An Nhien know I’m alive?”
“I don’t know. But in this entire city, everyone believes
you’re gone.”
“You thought I was dead too, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And if you hadn’t stumbled onto me?”
Hoa didn’t reply at first.
“I suppose I would have kept looking.”
“Because your organization needs me. Right?”
“At first, yes.”
“And now?”
Hoa held his sightless gaze.
“Now I want you to have a choice of your own.”
Khai Minh stood in the dark for a long time.
Up on the road, a truck rumbled past, shaking loose a fine
rain of cement dust from the underside of the bridge. He raised a hand over his
mouth and coughed, again and again. The cough came from somewhere deep,
dragging a hot ache through his chest.
Hoa started toward him. He threw up a hand to stop her.
“Don’t touch me.”
She halted.
Only when the coughing eased did Khai Minh speak again.
“Can this organization of yours find An Nhien?”
“Possibly.”
“Can it help me go back and take back everything that was
stolen from me?”
“If you have the strength left for it.”
“Then what do they want in exchange?”
Hoa folded her hands in front of her.
“The organization can treat your eyes.”
Her voice dropped low.
“But nothing they do comes free.”
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