Rain on the thatched roof
My village is situated right by a U-shaped bend in the canal; during the dry season, the water dries up completely, while during the rainy season, the muddy, reddish water overflows to the doorsteps. Those who can afford it have corrugated iron roofs, but for us, the moment the east wind blows, we hear the rustling overhead, our thatched roofs whispering to the sky...
Short stories by Tran Minh Cuong • August 12, 2026
My village is situated right by a U-shaped bend in the canal. During the dry season, the water dries up completely, while in the rainy season, the muddy, reddish water overflows to our doorsteps. Those who can afford it have corrugated iron roofs, but for us, the moment the east wind blows, we hear the rustling of the leaves above our heads, the thatched roofs whispering to the sky. People passing by the canal often stop at the dock and ask me:
- Why are you living in such a damp place, Mrs. Sau?
I laughed, tapping the carrying pole against the wooden bridge planks:
- This place is poor, but it has laughter.
That being said, my neighborhood also has its share of laughter that makes your stomach ache. It's the kind of laughter that gleefully gloats over the foolishness of others.
***
Lan was a source of amusement. She was nearly twenty, with a pleasant face, her hair tied low, and a conical straw hat always torn in one spot. Yet, she spoke like a child with candy in her mouth. She often sang traditional Vietnamese folk songs, mixing up the lyrics, sometimes jumping straight from "Bến đò Cà Mau" to "Dạ cổ hoài lang," causing the children to imitate her and tease her. Her house was tiny, thatched with reeds. The floor was scorching hot in the midday sun, and when it rained, it leaked like someone sifting flour. Every time it rained, she would catch the falling water with her hands and laugh as if she'd found gold. I felt more pity for her than amusement.
Tư Định, on the other hand, was the rare, strong-handed man still willing to climb thatched roofs for the whole village. His father was a professional at this trade, who died on the roof structure when he fell and was sucked into a whirlpool during a flood. Tư Định was only fifteen at the time. Since then, he's made a living with his keen eye, more skillful than most. He walks steadily, ties his ropes tightly, speaks little and works hard, and when it rains, his eyes gleam as if he can hear a call from the bottom of the water. He's poor, lives in a thatched house, and is quiet; the villagers say he's unpleasant but doesn't harm anyone.
No one knows exactly when Lan and Tu Dinh got together. All I remember is that one day, during a torrential downpour and a strong wind that knocked down several coconut palm fronds by the canal, I was standing on the porch selling tea, looking over at Lan's hut. She was running around with a pot of leftover rice, as if that pot could save the whole house. Then, out of nowhere, Tu Dinh appeared, shouting:
- Get out of here, go to the corner, let me handle this!
He climbed swiftly, tied up the leaves, and patched the leak with a piece of dried, old, tough leaf. The rain lashed against his face, but he still bent over to tie the knot. Finished, he jumped down and wiped Lan's face with a handkerchief. Then he gave the little girl a rice dumpling from his raincoat pocket. Lan smiled and raised her finger, indicating that Tư Định was number one.
- Can you give me some cake?
From that day on, he was always by Tư Định's side. The neighborhood started to have something to talk about. Chín Gạo, the owner of the rice boat, when he drank, his mouth became as sharp as the boat's bow, and he pulled a chair out onto the porch and shouted loudly:
Hey Dinh, watch out! It's a thatched roof, not a corrugated iron roof; if you lean on it, it'll sink!
The women sitting and picking vegetables burst into laughter, and the children joined in. I shushed them, widening my eyes:
- Talk less, or you'll get bad karma from your words!
Nine Rice pretended to be scared:
- Mrs. Sau, I'm really scared of you!
Then Chín Gạo pointed to Lan:
- That girl is crazy, why bother showing her any affection and risking a bad reputation?
Tu Dinh didn't argue, he just bent down to lift the bundle of leaves, his shoulders tensing, his collarbone clearly visible. Lan followed closely behind, holding a tattered hat to shield Tu Dinh. But the rain still soaked them both.
***
One afternoon, when the rain had stopped, I saw the two of them sitting under the eaves of his house. Tư Định meticulously shredded each leaf, his hands moving swiftly. Lan sat hugging a pillow wrapped in a sack of rice bran, humming softly, and when bored, she would make butterflies out of coconut leaves. She had a runny nose, and Tư Định used his sleeve to wipe it for her. To be honest, I felt like a father wiping his child's nose, but his eyes didn't seem that way. I turned away, feeling a slight pang in my heart.
Malicious gossip never leaves people in peace. Nine Rice was making snide remarks outside the tavern:
- He's dating that crazy woman, you guys should see, their kids will probably only be able to speak the language of rain when they have children.
A young boy chimed in:
- There's no shortage of girls in this village, why bring trouble upon yourself?
When the news reached Lan, she didn't fully understand, only feeling that people were laughing at her. She cried uncontrollably, running across the canal and sitting down in front of my tea shop. I gave her a spoon, and she ate, crying as she ate, her tears falling into the hot tea. Tư Định passed by, stopped, and slipped a cheap plastic butterfly-shaped hair clip into her hand. She immediately smiled, stopped crying, and put the clip on her tangled hair. Everyone in the shop fell silent, as if someone had turned off the gossip machine.
***
That year, the rainy season arrived early. The rain poured down all day, then suddenly intensified in the middle of the night. The ground was saturated with water, and any house with poorly reinforced pillars would crumble. I looked at my roof and silently prayed to Buddha. For several days, Tư Định was busy repairing roofs for the whole neighborhood; his skin had turned dark, and his hands were scratched.
- I'll check on Mrs. Sau's house when I have some free time.
- You check Lan's house first. Her roof is as thin as paper, and the girl is terrified of lightning.
The storm came, a night that swallowed up all sound. The wind whistled through the leaves, sounding as if someone were blowing right next to my ear. The water lashed against the walls with a roaring sound. Suddenly, I heard Lan's scream piercing through the curtain of rain:
- Hey, Mr. Dinh!
I ran out onto the porch, the rain weighing down my clothes, and looked across. A chunk of the roof had been ripped off by the wind, and the house's pillars creaked. He stood in the middle of the house, clutching the rice pot as always, his eyes wide with surprise.
Tu Dinh appeared out of nowhere, his raincoat clinging to his body, his hands clutching a bundle of leaves and rope.
Go to the corner and sit still!
It screamed. Then it climbed up. I only managed to see its back hunched over in the rain, its heels gripping the roof's edge, its hands swiping the rope across the thin rafters. The wind lashed, leaves flew, rain lashed, and lightning flashed a blinding white streak across the sky. It tightened the knot one last time, lifted its head, and called down:
- Done, just one more column…
A loud "crack!" like a word being broken apart. The roof beam couldn't withstand the force and snapped. The roof collapsed, taking the person with it. I heard no screams as people fell, only the sound of the roof and the pouring rain. I threw down my load and rushed over. Neighbors also ran to the house. Inside, it was a jumble of leaves, wood, and water. Lan sat on the ground, cradling Tư Định's head in her lap, wearing a tattered conical hat as if to shield them both from the rain. Her face was covered in mud, her eyes wide open, her lips moving as she sang a broken, off-key folk song: "The mat-covered boat from Cà Mau... has anchored..." Her voice wavered with the sound of the rain.
Tu Dinh opened his eyes for a very short while, then closed them again, like an oil lamp in the wind. I grabbed his hand, a cold, slippery hand, covered in mud and smelling of decaying leaves. I knew he was gone.
***
The villagers sat around in the rain, no one speaking. Chín Gạo stood at the door, soaked to the bone, his lips pressed together, his sarcastic tone gone. Someone temporarily covered the man with a mat. Lan pushed it away, hugged him back, and continued singing, "But why... at the water's edge... is there no one to welcome or see me off..." The song drifted away on the wind and rain, past other rooftops, then circled back, touching our group. It felt like a piercing pain in our hearts.
The funeral was held the very next day, still raining. I went to the funeral, my hands clutching a bundle of soaking wet incense sticks. Despite appearances, the villagers felt sorry for Tư Định and contributed whatever they could. The coffin was made of a few hastily assembled planks of wood, carried across the slippery bridge. Lan followed behind, her tattered hat on her head, her hands clutching a plastic butterfly hair clip. With each step, she stepped into a puddle of mud. She didn't have sandals, only bare feet touching the soft mud.
After the burial, the shaman mumbled prayers, the sound like someone beckoning the rain to lessen its intensity. Lan suddenly crouched down by the edge of the grave, pressing her cheek against the coffin lid, singing in her own unique style, not a single song, just a few words, "Oh, Định," drawn out like a stream of rain. I wanted to pull her up, but my limbs were limp, as if water had soaked through my bones, unable to move.
After the funeral, the village fell half silent. People no longer talked much about "Dinh and that crazy girl." I and a few other women gathered leaves and tied up the roof for Lan, but no one dared climb as high as Tư Định. The new roof was thicker, but everyone felt a hole in their hearts. That day, Chín Gạo drank less alcohol, picked up the bottle, and placed it in front of Lan's hut, whispering, "I'm sorry." Lan didn't understand; she just smiled, hugging the bottle like a doll.
The rain continued to fall for several nights in a row. Every night I would hear Lan's singing mingling with the sound of the roof tiles. She would sit by the door, wearing a tattered straw hat, clutching a butterfly clip, singing merrily as if calling for the rain. One night, I heard her talking to the roof tiles:
- Is Dinh asleep yet? Has the rain stopped? I... like the rain.
I pulled the blanket up to my neck, knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep.
***
People in the neighborhood started to feel more pity than amusement. The children stopped imitating his voice. Passersby would often leave him a banana or a piece of cake. But what pity could compensate for the loss? Every time it rained heavily, I feared his newly finished roof would sink, fall apart, and I would have to call another man to fix it. I lit incense and prayed silently:
- Tư, please secure the roof for him so he can't call anyone else.
The other day, the sky suddenly cleared. I carried my basket of vegetables out onto the porch and stood gazing at the still, silent canal. Lan suddenly ran over and thrust a plastic butterfly into my hand. She said:
- For you, it's beautiful.
I accept, and laugh:
Yes, it's beautiful.
He looked up and asked strangely:
Rain… have you stopped loving me yet?
I swallowed something hard, then patted its head:
- It's raining, but it's raining because I'm going to work.
He nodded, ran back, his tattered straw hat swaying with each step.
It didn't rain that night. But I could still hear, somewhere on the roof, a persistent, dripping sound, like water, like time, like someone telling me not to forget. I lay on my side, looking at the butterfly clip she gave me, temporarily attached to the old picture frame, and suddenly felt a gentle breeze blowing through the wall, yet it sent a chill down my spine.
***
Since Tư Định's death, people have mentioned him with a sigh. A few young apprentices, who had just started their careers, brought him up:
- Be careful when climbing the roof...
The other person replied:
- Remember Định, okay?
But whenever it rains heavily, I still see a slender figure leaping onto someone's roof, tying a rope, securing a leaf, and then disappearing before anyone can see clearly. Perhaps it's the rain that's making me imagine it. Or maybe this place just isn't getting any less humid, and the thatched roof still needs someone.
As for Lan, she still sat there as the sky began to darken, wearing her tattered straw hat. She would sing a line, then forget the next, compensating with a laugh. Sometimes, her voice would break off abruptly, and she would clap her hands to herself:
- Great singing!
I stood on this side of the porch, tapping the handle of my carrying pole against the wooden board, setting the rhythm. There was less laughter in the village than before, but strangely, the laughter sounded gentler. People passing by in boats asked me:
- What's so strange about Mrs. Sau's neighborhood?
I said:
- It's raining on the thatched roof. And there's a girl... sitting and singing while waiting for the rain.
They nodded and rowed away.
I stood there a little longer, looking across. The newly thatched roof was dry, leaving only a dark, scar-like mark where it had collapsed that night. On the doorstep, Lan arranged some coconut leaves into butterflies, blowing on them so they would float up a little before falling. She giggled. Suddenly, I felt a salty taste in my throat, as if I had just caught a late raindrop.
In this land, rain comes and goes, leaves leak and dry, people laugh and cry, but one thing remains constant: the thatched roof always remembers the sound of footsteps of those who climbed it out of love.
And every time it rained, my village would hear as if someone from above was tying up a rope, and it seemed as if they were also securing the roof of our house for us.
