Short story: And so the river flowed on.

There, the rain was very strange. The clear raindrops fell slowly, one by one, murmuring together from the sky, where the clouds were so thin they couldn't even be called dark. She called it "the gloomy sky."
I craned my neck, intently watching the water droplets shimmering at the tips of the thatched roofing of the kitchen shed. The kitchen shed was a small space, yet it held an immense, tranquil serenity. Back home on the other side of the world, I used to look out the front door, through the glass pane, at the streets and the iron lampposts. But here, I preferred to wander to the back room, gazing idly at the banana trees, the water jar, and the pond. I sat on a single chair, next to a rusty green stove, listening to the fumes of cooking oil swirling with the smoke from the cooking fire. Water seeped in with the rain onto the chair. The clear liquid shimmered around me. I instinctively pulled my feet up and propped them on the chair, the soles brushing against a splinter sticking out somewhere.
- How do people greet each other over there?
- Well… “Hello!” means “Greetings”.
She reached up and lifted the lid of the stew pan, took a few deep breaths, then frantically tossed the lid aside and covered her ears. It must have been very hot.
- What a boring greeting! Here, I usually greet adults with "How are you, auntie? It's been a long time!". For people my age, I usually ask, "Where are you going?".
- Huh, why are you greeting me with a question?
That's just how things are in this place, isn't it?
As she spoke, she reached up and gathered a lock of hair at the nape of her neck into a round bun. Her long hair, reaching her waist, rippled at the ends, emitting a faint scent, presumably that of sticky rice. Her fingers were slender, her nails slightly yellowish. The spaces between her nails were stained with excess skin. Her left index finger had no nail. A chopstick was passed through the bun. A few strands of hair fell loosely, gently caressing her pristine white nape.
Why don't you go out and have some fun? What are you doing here?
I didn't know how to answer. And it seemed she didn't need me to answer either. She just asked for the sake of conversation. I don't like interacting with strangers; I prefer being alone in quiet places. But wasn't she a stranger? As I bent over the fire, I turned my head to gaze at the surrounding curtain of water. This side of the kitchen overlooked the back garden, where several ducks were running out to bathe in the rain, quacking. Why were the mother ducks white, and their ducklings yellow?
- Was your hand stuck back then?
She looked down at her finger with the missing nail. It twitched. Her lips curved into a smile. The breath that escaped from that smile carried a faint scent of rice wine. Then, she hid her finger behind her black trousers.
We watched the rain and said nothing more. The torn banana leaves swayed in the breeze. The water parted into two or three streams along them. A young banana tree sprouted a tender green shoot. The tamarind tree in the distance shivered, a shower of tiny leaves falling. A soft, rustling sound. The water on the pond's surface bloomed into round flowers. The earthenware jar, full to the brim, was round and round. The dark, muddy soil was soaked, with puddles of water creating a sticky, muddy mess. The dripping sound continued, forming a lingering, melodious murmur.
- Hey son! Come here for a moment!
My mother's voice called out from the front of the house. I wonder if those neighbors who came over to visit and made such a fuss have left yet? They were talking so loudly, asking so many questions that I couldn't answer them all.
- I'm coming right away!
I turned to greet her, only to find the chopstick that had been in her bun had been removed and returned to its place on the table. The bunch of ripe bananas next to it emitted a faint, bewildered fragrance.

***

I lit my last cigarette. I'd smoked every pack I'd brought back in three days. The tobacco here is made of thin, yellow strands pressed into bricks, wrapped in plastic. You have to roll them in parchment paper before smoking. It's burnt, yet I don't understand why my grandfather smoked it so well. He even said that in the old days, they dried the leaves of the Terminalia catappa tree and smoked them, so there were no tobacco strands. Late at night, the kitchen crackled with the smell of decaying wood. The earthen stove was a hole dug, supported by six hollow bricks, the bottom glowing with a crisp, burnt light. My grandmother had just told me, "When you see the fire go out, please add some coconut leaves for me. The sticky rice cakes take a long time to cook." The huge pot, with its rich aroma of sticky rice, lingered inside.
Why are you sitting here all the time?
She crept cautiously through the back door. Behind her, some distant thatched house still shimmered with lights.
- You stay up late too? Why do people in the countryside say they go to bed early?
She giggled. Then she squatted down, the slit in her traditional Vietnamese blouse revealing a glimpse of her skin at the waist. Her index finger traced her earlobe, and her long hair was swept back in several smooth folds like a flowing stream.
- Are you married?
I took a deep drag, the smoke a thick, reddish haze.
Yes, I have it.
- Do you have children yet?
- I'll follow Mom's lead, dear.
- And where are they?
- It's very far...
How far is that distance? Is it as distant as those blinking eyes? Those slanted gazes, the night mist casting a veil of intimacy over the hazy field. Her unpainted lips curved upwards, the fine hairs on her philtrum soft and delicate. She pursed her lips, bowed her head, and blew on the earthen stove to ignite the fire. She blew with her breath. I instinctively wanted to touch those pursed lips.
- Will you go out with me tomorrow?
She looked at me and giggled.
- You don't invite girls like that here, you know?
- How else would I invite them?
- Nobody invited anyone. It's only when we feel affection for each other.
I was taken aback by the strange logic. "When do you feel affection for each other?" How can you love someone without going out, dating, getting to know them, or living together for a period of time? Do people here need a beginning to love? Or do they just let it happen, letting love come when it comes? Does love in this country begin with a fleeting, sensual desire? Like that tear in a dress, like those lips pursed together, breathing fire?
The chirping of crickets came from a waterlogged patch of thorny bushes. Then a gecko creaked and clattered. After that, another creature made a long, drawn-out sound; I couldn't tell what it was.
How old are you?
- Seventeen, or maybe eighteen. That's my lunar age.
- What does "maternal age" mean?
She smiled again. Her smile was as sweet and gentle as the waves of rice spreading across the fields.
- But where is your son going with his mother? Are they breaking up?
What kind of girl asks such a blunt question? It's someone else's family matter...
- His neck doesn't look like yours.
No two people are alike.
At that moment, the cigarette I'd forgotten to smoke had secretly burned down, its flame stinging my finger. I jumped, startled, and threw it away. The ember was submerged in the rainwater and went out. I hurried away, my thin blouse billowing in the wind.
- Okay, I'm going home now, see you later!

***

And for a week afterward, I waited for her in the kitchen every day. My grandmother asked, "You've been away from home for so long, and you're always stuck in the kitchen?" I kept her secret. If my grandmother found out, she'd go around the neighborhood trying to find out whose daughter she was, how old she was, who her parents were, what they did for a living, and whether she was married or not. Then the whole neighborhood would know about me and her. Oh my god, that would be awful.
Meeting her now is a joyous occasion. Those unspoken feelings are a million times more beautiful than any explicit emotions, any carnal desires. The kitchen annex, the back porch, the pond, the banana grove. Is this love? When one's thoughts must be wrapped in banana leaves like a ball of sticky rice, only a small gap revealing the golden, burnt scent of freshly cooked rice. A young girl, beautiful like a flower just beginning to bloom.
She rushed into my life like a fleeting breeze. She asked naive questions, and I answered with blunt honesty. The conversation was rambling and disjointed, just like how she arrived and departed.
- Mr. Hai loves Mrs. Hai very much. They've been together for forty years. I heard that they were all arranged marriages back then, and only truly loved each other after getting married and having children. And yet they've stayed together until old age, haven't they?
She was talking about my grandmother. Her face was round, her cheeks a delicate pink. The strands of hair near her ears caressed my thoughts. I couldn't resist, reaching out to gently brush aside the hair that cascaded down her slender back. I had touched her for the first time. The moonlight shone obliquely, her head tilted, her pretty face nestled in the palm of my hand, still smelling of cigarette smoke.
The night held its breath. The snakehead fish didn't thrash their tails. The river water didn't ripple. The wind stopped blowing, and the rustling clouds embraced the pale moonlight. My thin chest was filled with the sound of my rapidly beating heart. My sweet breath clung to my hand, damp with sweat.
When are you leaving?
When am I leaving? Yes, when am I leaving? Back to the old place, leaving this place behind? Should I rebuild that pond, that banana grove, the hibiscus hedge, the puddles of rainwater? Even this kitchen annex must be wrapped in banana leaves and buried in a rice jar. She moved her face away from my hand. The warmth lingered, falling into the silent night.
- Don't forget me when you leave!
And so, she sank into the darkness. The lights in the distant neighbor's house flickered several times, then went out. I sat huddled in the corner of my kitchen, feeling a wave of homesickness wash over me like a flood.

***

The plane took off. The wind swept through my soul, carrying away the last vestiges of my homeland, the land where rivers flowed with a sense of longing. The iron wings tilted, the white clouds spread wide. The horizon on the other side of the earth was covered in a hazy, undulating expanse.
- How have you been since you came back home?
My mother looked at me, her eyes moist with mist. I gazed deep into her eyes, seeing the branches of a river flowing endlessly within them. My hand suddenly felt warm from her touch. The soft warmth enveloped her long, flowing black hair, as if threads were still clinging to the crevices of my fingernails.
- I'll come back next year, Mom.
My mother nodded but said nothing, sending a fleeting pang of longing carried away by the clouds outside the window. For a brief moment, I saw her standing amidst the clouds, smiling gently, then dissolving into the wind.
And so the river continued to flow.