My soul remains at a train station.

((Baonghean) - Once again, I was immersed in the crowd on this train station platform, immersed in the golden electric lights that seemed to be trying to light up a little warmth in the still chilly March weather. I was immersed in the darkness that crept between the shadows of houses and trees, between the dark railway tracks lying abandoned, waiting for the trains.

Catch the train at the station.

A shop owner at Vinh train station invited me to sit down for a drink, speaking in a friendly, family-like tone. I sat down next to her stall and asked for a cup of hot green tea. I took a sip and felt a warmth spread through me.

I'm from another place, I've been to Vinh many times and, of course, I've been away from Vinh many times as well. I remember the train that took me to Vinh back then usually arrived at Vinh station very early, at 4:32 a.m. The night was still thick, the smell of cold dew was still pungent, the sleepiness of the city had a melancholic air, which made me feel sad too. But I liked those early mornings, solitude, without needing anyone to greet me.

I like sitting on the long bench next to the No. 1 railway track, saying to the shopkeeper with her melodious Lao accent, "Excuse me, ma'am, can I have a piece of 'cu do' candy?", then peeling off the plastic wrapper, taking a bite, and waiting for the sweetness to melt on my tongue. I like sitting on the waiting benches in Vinh station, where people usually sit to wait for the train to arrive and begin their journey from Vinh, not waiting for dawn like I do. I tilt my head back, waiting for the sky to gradually turn white, the thin layers of mist to dissipate, and breathing in the pungent, earthy air of Vinh at dawn.

The railway tracks sometimes screech beneath the wheels of trains coming and going, then fall silent again into the darkness, waiting. Sleepy vendors and a few station staff walk between the tracks, performing their quiet duties. The train whistle echoes through the night, like a call, a wake, a stirring… Station staff stand at the carriage doors, welcoming and guiding passengers, their smiles sometimes weary, but I always find a unique charm of the people of Nghe An.

Usually, as dawn breaks, I take a taxi to my usual address on Le Hong Phong Street. I've been to Vinh so many times in the autumn, when the fragrant osmanthus and jasmine blossoms fill the streets. The streets I walk through in autumn suddenly become as enchanting as a lover. They are gentle and serene, giving one a feeling of peace and tranquility. They are fragrant, romantic, and captivating… I've also visited Vinh in other seasons, each with its own charm, but ultimately, I realize that these streets give me a warm feeling, like touching the hand of my dearest friend.

Passengers before the train departs.

Meetings, work, dates, meals, and even strolls along Ho Chi Minh Square or up Mount Quyet… Every time I come to Vinh, I'm overwhelmed with work and these leisure activities, only to leave again with a lingering sadness.

I don't like being greeted by anyone, but I do like having someone see me off at the train station. A friend, almost every time I say goodbye to Vinh, was there to wait for the train with me. Silently reciting Olga Bergol's "The Season of Falling Leaves" to him, I joked, "I come to the station with a quiet heart, as before," but I still need someone to see me off. We laughed together, our hearts filled with mixed emotions as we waited.

The trains were sometimes late, but more often they were surprisingly punctual. Because often, sitting together on the waiting bench at Vinh station, my friend and I wanted to forget that some NA train was approaching and that we were about to part ways again, beginning days of longing.

During a trip to Vinh, my work led me to visit a small hamlet right next to Vinh train station that the locals call the "worker's hamlet." I met elderly men and women, eighty or ninety years old, with gray hair, who told stories of their lives working as laborers at Vinh station. Now that their time is over, they don't know where to go or what kind of work to do, so they cling to this place and hope... The women, frail and delicate, have spent their whole lives waiting for the trains.

They waited to be the first to load and unload, their shoulders hunched over as they painstakingly lifted sacks of goods. They knew nothing of leisurely days, of shopping in stores or supermarkets, of buying themselves new clothes, and of even having time to inquire about their children's education. For them, a new shirt was a luxury, something they didn't know how to use in any other circumstances, because they were accustomed to the color of mud and coal, the color of the crisscrossing crates of goods clinging to their worn-out clothes, reeking of sweat.

They are accustomed to the bleeding scratches, the throbbing pain in their shoulders, necks, and limbs on days when the weather changes; they are accustomed to wrinkled clothes and weary, exhausted faces… But every day they still wait for the trains as if waiting for the joy of their lives. Because if not, they wouldn't know what to do or where to go in the long, seemingly endless years.

Their story is as sad as autumn leaves, swaying on a branch, waiting. Perhaps waiting, in any circumstance, always carries a similar appearance: hope. But as for me, on this train station for so many years, in this state of waiting, with so many journeys and arrivals, what do I hope for from these trains?

Hoping its whistle will pierce the quiet, sparking a new, boisterous excitement? Hoping to board carriage number 5 or 8, climb to the second level of a sleeping compartment, comfortably snuggle under a warm blanket, and allow your mind to embark on a journey filled with promise?

Hopefully, once again, as we begin to leave Vinh, memories of the past few days will flood back, the longing will surge, and our hearts will feel warm, as if we have a place to remember, a place to promise to return to? Hopefully, the swaying of the train on the distant tracks will bring new feelings, ultimately a new experience in each land, each road?

Vinh Station - a place filled with fond memories and longing.

I don't know, but every time I wait for the train at Vinh station, I feel a pang of sadness, mixed with a little bit of hope. Perhaps I'm hoping to return to this place...

They say train stations are the beginning and end of journeys, but for me, it's more than that. Sometimes the beginning and the end are so close, as are the journeys of going and returning. I wonder if those trains stopping at 4:32 a.m. are taking me to Vinh or back to Vinh, because any place dear to our soul is home. Just like any person close to our heart is family, and perhaps even ourselves.

Station attendants patrolling Vinh train station.

Once again, I have to leave Vinh. Unlike all previous farewells, this time my friend is no longer with me. The friend who, so many times, saw me off, his eyes following my train carriage until the train disappeared into the night. The friend whose eyes were once as moist as night dew, whose lips were silent, but I knew that, at that moment, there were so many things he wanted to say. He is no longer with me, and now I can read Olga Bergol's long, sad poem, alone in the dim yellow light of the station, in a profound loneliness.

But I know that the season of falling leaves is also the season of anticipation for young shoots, even though they are still hidden somewhere within the tree trunks. And spring is smiling around me, in the still slightly damp breeze of Vinh train station, in the shy buds on the trees with an eager anticipation.

Quynh An