Short story: Living with the Dawn

Nam pushed the door open, a few faces looked up, the cafe was quiet late at night. Outside, a light rain was falling. The rain, influenced by the remnants of Typhoon No. 13, made the night even more desolate. The clusters of red bougainvillea hung loosely by the window overlooking the street. People and vehicles were sparse. The clock hands moved into a new day. Most of the people remaining at the cafe didn't want to go home, or perhaps for some reason, they chose to sit here with coffee or a light drink, letting themselves drift into the night, waiting for the new day with its tangled web of reflections. Most of the customers were people who had weathered life's storms, having experienced the economic recession. They came and spoke softly, sighed, and sipped their coffee. Sometimes they were alone and silent, immersed in the night.
This unusual cafe is only open from 10 PM to 7 AM the next morning, a kind of romantic business in an era where land is worth its weight in gold and time is money. It sits neatly in an old apartment building, easily over 50 years old in this city. The owner is a middle-aged man with long, curly hair, a dark complexion, and thick, dark lips. He runs the cafe alone, making and serving his own drinks. Customers order at the counter and, upon leaving, simply drop the money into a small metal box on the counter. If the bill is larger than the price of the drink, they can confidently empty the box and find the change to get the difference. The owner is sometimes busy making drinks, sometimes washing glasses, but other times the dark-skinned man is lost in the gentle, mellow sounds of his guitar. "Please do not disturb, especially with money." This sign is prominently displayed on the counter, which is made from a refurbished, old, purple-painted rickshaw.
On the sixth floor, in a house, the men drifted into the night.

***

During the real estate freeze, Tinh returned to her rented room in the city's suburbs with nothing. In just two years, Tinh had aged and become haggard, surprising her friends. These young people, having left their hometowns, came to the city hoping for a better life. Starting with their studies in university, then working part-time, searching for internships, and finally securing a permanent position at a company that suited them – it was a journey none of them could have imagined.
The affordable suburban apartment for the four boys witnessed countless nights of studying under the lamplight, sighs of weariness with life, heart-wrenching tears over stories of older colleagues bullying newcomers at work, and laughter when their Lunar New Year bonuses were enough to renovate their parents' house and buy themselves a car. It was also in that same apartment that the four of them lit incense, treating each other like brothers, praying for a beautiful house of their own. But Tịnh chose to leave first, amidst the soaring price of real estate. His bachelor's degree in education was neatly tucked away at the bottom of his suitcase. Tịnh worked as a real estate agent, moving from east to west across the city. He saw the numbers in his bank account increasing steadily. He patted his friends on the shoulder during a drunken farewell with a roasted duck. "I'm going first, but I'll take you guys with me." They nodded, their hearts pounding with apprehension.
Vi was also there that day; her friend had chosen to leave the city and return to Thieng Lieng island hamlet as part of a campaign to increase the number of teachers on this remote salt island. Vi looked at Tinh and gently shook her head. Tinh was always impatient, like a balloon being inflated. Land buries money, and people bury themselves in the land. Vi was born and raised on this land. As the land rapidly transformed into bustling urban areas, Vi's parents also threw themselves into the land, grabbing pieces of land according to the times. They would sell small pieces and borrow more from the bank to acquire larger ones. When the larger pieces fetched a good price, they would sell them and borrow more from the bank to split them into two larger pieces. And so it went, the land created insatiable thirsts. Thirsts that were never satisfied.
When the real estate market collapsed like an oversized bubble, bank interest payments reached hundreds of millions of dong a month. Even the house inherited from her grandparents had to be sold to cover the losses. But the freeze was relentless. The inflation rate continued to plummet. Vi and her parents moved to a rented house in Binh Chanh to wait for better times. But before the time came, the bank loan deadline arrived. One by one, they were left penniless. Vi understood, Vi felt the pain, but she couldn't convince Tinh.
Vi chose to leave Tinh and go to Thieng Lieng. Tinh chose to leave her suburban rented room and move to the city center. Her friends were bewildered. Duy, Ky, and Nam sat and listened as time slowly crept towards dawn. But then Nam was right; Tinh had returned.

***

On Ky's wedding day, Nam didn't come home. Nam, carrying his camera, traveled through over 80 countries on his motorbike, his current stop being in some desert far out in Africa. Nam said that girl was incredibly brave, and adding a dreamy poet to her life meant a life of endless suffering. Ky calmly replied that it was love. The simplest thing in life is love. It's just that people overthink things and then become afraid. Like Ky, she's content with just enough joy to live!
Nam continued to regularly update his whereabouts. Sometimes Vi would tell Nam that living such a carefree life would lead to hardship in old age. Everyone eventually gets tired and weary, and when they look back, loneliness can kill them before they even get old. "Go home," Vi said, "I'll introduce you to the kindest teacher in Thieng Lieng." Nam responded with a smiley face to Vi's chat and then forwarded the matchmaking request to Duy, the richest friend in the group with a villa in the misty mountain town.
Duy was talented and calm, pursuing a career in architecture after graduation. Combined with his youthful passion for drawing, his designs always captivated those who appreciated refined beauty. As a result, Duy rose to prominence quickly. When Duy left the rented room, none of the others were as anxious as Tinh. But Duy remained the most eccentric of the group. His eccentricity lay in his very personality, his appearance, and his unconventional nature.
This city has fourteen million people, living together in harmony. Duy is gentle, then dissolves back into the hurried crowd to earn money. Kỳ still leisurely writes poetry. Tịnh keeps burying himself in his dreams of the land. And Nam drifts away with the wind. Luckily, there's still Vi, who sends daily messages to the group chat.
But for over a week now, Vi hasn't sent a single message.

***

Tịnh arrived, still half-asleep, looked at his scruffy, dusty friend, and shook his head slightly. This city would be peaceful without a vagabond like you. Nam remained silent, looking down at the street. It was past two in the morning, the street deserted. The bar owner began to get carried away, scattering gentle notes of music throughout the room. The men continued to drift into the night, awakened by a state of heightened awareness.
As the sun began to set, Ky arrived, dressed in his running clothes. It was now 5 a.m., and the bar was starting to empty. The men who had lingered since the night before had long since disappeared. Only four men remained, sitting and looking down at the street from the window of the old apartment building.
Vi returned to the city during the summer days. The nights were hazy with the lingering effects of a gathering. Saigon rain seemed to soothe empty souls. Loneliness is what makes people most easily dissolve into the rain. That night, Tinh took Vi back to her rented room on the outskirts of the city. The thirst for land was overshadowed by a thirst for love. It turned out Vi was still living on the small island. After a decade of teaching, Vi was chosen as the principal of the elementary school surrounded by water on all sides. It took more than a day's journey from the city center to the salt island. Vi saved up enough money to buy a small house and decided to stay permanently on the remote island. There, Vi knew the poor children needed her more than the bright lights of the bustling city. Vi gave Tinh a choice.
In her drunken state, Vi pushed Tinh into the corner of the bed. Tinh was like a withered tree branch, barren for years without a single refreshing bath to soothe her soul. Tinh felt herself soaring in a serene and sweet blue sky. The next morning, when Tinh woke up, Vi had disappeared.
Four men in their thirties gazed at the somber autumn light, dampened by the recent storm. To the west of the city, the land had expanded into a cluster of riverside urban developments. To the east, the land had developed into high-rise administrative and commercial buildings connected to the tram line from Suoi Tien station. But to reach Thieng Lieng island hamlet, one had to cross the Vam Sat forest road, a total of one large ferry and two smaller ferries. Thieng Lieng, still part of the city, felt incredibly distant. Was there any difference between autumn in the east, autumn in the west, or autumn in Thieng Lieng?
Whether things were any different or not, this autumn, Vi had become a mother. Duy thoughtfully took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling a round smoke ring into the air. The other three friends suddenly turned to look at Duy, then all eyes focused on Tinh.
November brings plenty of sunshine and breeze, but also some rain, giving the city a gentle, silvery glow.

***

Nam dragged Tinh out of the suburban house, tossed her onto his motorbike, and sped through the forest towards the salt island. As the crimson sunset cast its glow over the Long Tau River, the motorbike stopped at a small wooden house with a trellis of pristine white syrup flowers. Duy had been living there for some time. The house had been built after Vi's message. Duy remained the quiet, reserved man who preferred action to talk. The house faced the salt fields. Tinh sat thoughtfully, watching the sunset fade into the sky. The night was silent, devoid of traffic. Only whispers and Tinh's tears filled the air.
Half a month later, the wedding, attended by only five people, took place at the sleepless café. Vi smiled in her red ao dai (traditional Vietnamese dress). Tinh seemed to have overcome her thirst for earth and instead longed for the sound of children's voices. It turned out that only at this age did Tinh realize that after a decade of winding paths, time had only given her back the love that had been pieced together to complete a relationship.
When Kỳ got drunk, he would recite poetry. Surprisingly, no one criticized his poems as cheesy anymore. Those twenty days, now sitting here, are the memories of a bygone autumn. For the first time in a decade, Nam finally stopped wandering and settled down in this city. He'll be back with Duy, helping out at the design company. And after all these years, Duy finally decided to close the bar, so that the men would stop drifting into the night. Everyone must eventually live with the dawn.