House B in Quang Trung area will be a place of fond memories…

A museum of memories

Over 40 years. From the days when these walls smelled of fresh lime, when the doors swung open with joy to welcome the first residents of the apartment complex known as Building B Quang Trung, to now, the walls are covered in faded green moss, the damp, musty stains of age linger, and the doors are wide open, revealing empty corridors filled with windy, crumbling bricks and mortar. Over 40 years, countless joyful steps on the staircases, countless sorrowful farewells on the staircases, countless hesitant waits on the staircases… Some of the first steps of life have left their mark here, and some of the last steps of a person's life on this earth have also left their mark here. Now, only vast, scarred spaces remain…

For over 40 years, these buildings, which once rose proudly amidst a city of thatched roofs and crumbling bricks, have now become low, dilapidated old houses, ready to be demolished. For over 40 years, they sheltered countless homes, countless lives coming and going, embracing countless joys, sorrows, and bitter experiences, preserving millions of memories to form a magnificent museum of memories for the people of Vinh. And now, silently and proudly, they fade away, lying dormant as if they had lived a glorious life, as if they had completed their mission and it was time to peacefully bid farewell.

I stood at the foot of the B blocks of the Quang Trung apartment complex, lost in thought these days, where the last residents were finally moving out amidst a whirlwind of emotions. Regret, longing, sorrow, hope… So many of their memories belong to this place. I thought of all the residents who grew up here, who at this very moment are far away, wishing they could be like me, silently standing beneath the rows of flamboyant and banyan trees, gazing up at the numbered rooms, the windows, the corridors, the staircases, the bulletin boards at the top of each building… There, surely, a little girl left behind a dried flower, concealing her first stirrings of love. There, a little boy left behind bewildered blue marbles, a sadness in his hand clutching the iron bars on a late afternoon when his parents returned home from a late shift? There, the cicadas of early June began to chirp above a canopy of vibrant red flame trees that stretched all the way to the 4th floor of building B6, and even to the 5th floor of building B5. A window opened, revealing a poignant longing for a sky filled with white clouds and golden sunshine, the starting point of a dream to fly far away on wings of freedom…

We share the same path home.

Ms. Nguyen Thi Van and her husband, Mr. Ho Viet Trung, residents of building B6, were discussing moving out in the middle hallway. She owns a famous fried donut, boiled snail, and stir-fried snail stall that has been popular for years at the foot of building B6. Today, she didn't tell me about her business success anymore. She felt a pang of sadness. She said that she knew she would eventually move to a new house, receive compensation, and continue her work as she had done for so many years, living in more comfortable conditions, but she couldn't help but feel sad and nostalgic for this place. She moved with her parents to building B4 in 1976, and met her husband in building B6, right on the steps of these B-block buildings. Her wedding procession was a short distance from B4 to B6, and all her friends and relatives were residents of the upper floors. She gave birth to her two children in this first-floor apartment. Now she's a grandmother and is finally letting her children move out on their own. "So, only two generations of our family have lived in B6, but like Mrs. Loan's family in room 312, all three generations have lived here."

Mrs. Ha Thi Loan, 81 years old, with hair as white as snow, slowly recounted her family's life to us. She moved to this B6 building from the very beginning (in 1977). She gave birth to two children. Her son, Truong Van Doan (born in 1968), and his family are currently living with her. Mrs. Loan's grandchildren are now grown up. “I thought my great-grandchild would also be born in this B6 building. This building feels so dear to my family…” Mrs. Loan's family is one of the last remaining families here, facing many challenges ahead. The worries are understandable, but deep down, there is a profound sense of nostalgia. As she told us her story, her hands, marked with age spots, traced the edge of the corridor wall – where the faded lime paint had given way to faint patches of moss slowly spreading. And those residents not only told me their stories, but also spoke of the joys and sorrows, the many lives intertwined with this place, like the story of the sick mother and child selling groceries at the foot of the stairs, the story of the widow, the disabled man… who still find joy in the green vegetables grown in Styrofoam boxes every day.

What remains…

The rooms on the 3rd, 4th, and 5th floors of building B were almost silent by noon on June 4th. What remained was a jumble of broken pieces. A plaster statue of a young girl holding a vase, its paint chipped; a teapot with a broken spout, lying along the hallway of one room; an old toy stroller; a plastic doll with a shy smile; a box of toys made of seashells, carefully wrapped and painted by some child, placed on an old door; a bright red heart-shaped pillow with a loving message still printed on it; walls covered with scribbled drawings and messages from a boy, perhaps accompanied by a beating; a notice about a power outage; a scrawled note: "Buy a house" and a phone number. A photo album had also been left behind. I don't know if the owner of this house accidentally dropped it while moving or intentionally left it here, wanting to forget it. The album contains countless photos documenting a lifetime, a pressed rose, and carefully written notes after each picture. I long to find whoever dropped it, or whoever wanted to forget it, just to ask: when all of this is in the past, will they want to revisit these memories? Will they still remember without it? And will they truly forget without it?

When the memories remain

That question lingered heavily in my mind. Like a branch of vibrant purple bougainvillea suddenly spilling from a balcony onto a closed apartment numbered 223. Like the patches of light in a crack-strewn, crumbling hallway suddenly bursting with the dazzling June blossoms of the flamboyant tree. Like the lonely cry of the old woman selling scrap metal on her old bicycle below, a melancholic, poignant melody echoing in the quiet midday. Like the shadows of people cast on the mossy walls of an old apartment building, a sense of aging…

I also know that, in the hustle and bustle of life, so many things are inevitably lost each day. But how many ways do people have to remember them?

When people still cherish memories, can anything truly be lost?