THE ONE WHO CARRIES TWO WINDS - There are souls that belong nowhere – yet still choose to live, to understand, and to forgive.

THE ONE WHO CARRIES TWO WINDS71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡklwc3b2KVh
Author:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJWMcHTgMLP
Pham Le Quy

"There are souls that belong nowhere –71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJJK9KPcvnh
yet still choose to live,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdCSuuwxxZM
to understand,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTIiIkr0UWp
to love,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx2FAAY6aKm
and to forgive."71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8khAgBpPUk
Vietnam, 2025

Table of Contents

Foreword (Page 7)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE5jKq21nzj
Dedication (Page 9)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9Zu4VzpInE
Blurb (Page 10)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3sV3rf4EJD
Copyright Page (Page 12)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPY2bm53mrw
About the Author (Page 13)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy08b7eUzIk
Editor’s Note (Page 14)

Chapters

Chapter I: The One Who Carries Two Winds (Page 16)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6WlASi1cC3
A child with a Vietnamese body but a soul split in two — a tragedy begins, transcending borders of culture and time.

Chapter II: Strange Blood – The Western Curse (Page 20)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ37ubBQs8gX
When Western blood is transfused into his body, the spirit of a deceased woman begins to awaken within the boy.

Chapter III: The Unwanted Hybridity (Page 24)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUXgOfkvFaf
History is torn and imposed upon the next generation — when national prejudice turns a child into a stranger in his own homeland.

Chapter IV: Twin Sister – A Duplicated Soul (Page 28)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf0QNSfJuFC
Identity is fractured, the soul cloned — no one remains themselves when mirrors shatter and perspectives distort.

Chapter V: Schemes and the Price of Power (Page 33)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZe1m7H8DSt
Revenge, manipulation, possession — all to protect an illusion of honor, which is in truth, nothing more than hunger for control.

Chapter VI: The Swap and Inner Conflict (Page 38)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjNJVJxmqL1
The protagonist is no longer a singular being, but a fusion of conflicting selves: male and female, East and West, saint and sinner.

Chapter VII: The Ending or a Curse Repeated? (Page 43)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡysMqkjpgDZ
No longer a line between enemy and kin — only the shadow of confusion remains.

Chapter VIII: Rivers of Blood – Oceans of Tears (Page 49)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ54IZmUMPW4
The mixed-blood girl chooses to live like the wind — belonging to no one, owned by none, even if it costs her eternal loneliness.

Chapter IX: A Nameless Pride, Like a Lotus in the Mud (Page 54)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLRoTInhYVB
Though betrayed, expelled, and denied, she still graduates — proving that no dream dies unless it chooses to.

Chapter X: A Message from the Survivor (Page 59)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjlxVYhsCAM
A final message — of apology and gratitude — to her parents and sister. A farewell wrapped in forgiveness.

Chapter XI: Forgiving Oneself (Page 64)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrCDGlV0J9B
She stares into her old wounds — not to blame, but to understand that even without an apology, one must forgive oneself to go on.

Chapter XII: Where Dawn Blooms in the Heart (Page 67)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdxIE1JlXkV
From a place once full of darkness, a gentle light emerges — not from without, but from the courage within. For once, she faces judgment head-on — and dawn begins blooming in her chest.

Chapter XIII: The Hands of the Imperfect (Page 70)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuizAwzPrWv
She no longer waits for perfect embraces. Those who were once clumsy, who once hurt her — are now the hands that touch her soul. And for the first time, she learns: forgiveness is touching without holding on.

Chapter XIV: Seasons That Do Not Repeat (Page 74)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0KJuIYkJGs
Time does not rewind. But each passing season leaves a lesson — of those who left, of what can’t be regained, and of how to live fully in the present moment.

Chapter XV: A Home Within the Chest (Page 78)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY5eRYQ3ORt
No need for a precise address, no need for others’ approval. At last, she builds a refuge within herself — where pain is named, memories laid to rest, and the heart learns to hold itself.

Chapter XVI: The Remaining Piece of Herself (Page 82)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGlMJ9KdRRr
No more running, no more fitting into molds. She pauses, gazes into the rejected fragments — and the final piece is simply acceptance of her whole being, beauty and flaws alike.

Chapter XVII: When a Flower Chooses to Bloom Itself (Page 86)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqXawptnn3T
No expectations, no promises of love — and still, she blooms. Like a nameless flower in the wind and dust, in a tangled world. Not to be seen, but because she deserves to live fully.

Chapter XVIII: Naming What Was Lost (Page 90)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjqbyiOrtWO
No longer afraid of what has disappeared. She dares to name each stolen thing, each person who left, each dream that died young. For only by naming them can she lay them to rest — and allow herself to live on.

Chapter XIX: And Finally, I Choose to Stay with Myself (Page 94)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAX4DJ0TAQt
She once wished others would understand, forgive, heal her. But in the end, with no one left to wait for, she chooses to stay — with herself, whole even in her wounds.

Chapter XX (Finale): Lessons Folded into Silence (Page 98)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEoEQyzdXEP
No need for speeches or debates. The grandest truths — of identity, of love, of forgiveness — are wrapped in final silence. For compassion is a language that needs no translation.

Special Appendix

Symbolism Explained (Page 102)
The Hidden Timeline of the Main Character (Page 102)
Quotes Marking Transformation (Page 103)
Spiritual References & Creative Inspirations (Page 103)
Character Family Tree (Page 104)
The Three-Lifetime Reincarnation Diagram (Page 104)
Music/Film Suggestions for Reading (Page 105)

Preview of Upcoming Work (Page 107)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9uS6DZG8Oj
Afterword (Page 108)

FOREWORD

For those souls once pushed to the margins of life.

I didn’t write this novella to seek pity. Nor to earn praise.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlSA2t7qYWO
I wrote it because there were days when I could no longer speak.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcL5ZjZwGcH
I wrote it because some truths, if left untold, rot within us like unnamed wounds.

This book is not for those who seek happy endings, flawless characters, or tidy plots.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJuswsmlbMl
Because life—and people like the protagonist of this story—have never lived in such a world.

This work is an echo from bleeding memories.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7Kn0z3XyHs
It is a bell that rings inside the soul, though no one strikes it.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5i2dYX7o0E
It is the confession of someone who once blamed their family, society, and even themselves.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIO0QEtFjmA
But also, it is the gentle manifesto of a survivor.

This book is for:

The children marked as “different,” yet never told why.
The students expelled not for their grades, but because their very presence was unwelcome.
The honest ones cast out because they were too gentle to be silent, yet too fragile to resist.
And anyone who has ever asked themselves: “Do I deserve to be loved?”

If you find yourself in a sentence, a chapter, or even a single glance of a character—hold it close, as a reminder: You are not alone.

We are all “those who carry two winds”—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbACbjwINyJ
fragments of unnamed places, still breathing, still blooming in the swamps of life.

This is not a book to be rushed.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmRXauW2Vx9
Read slowly. Breathe with it.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9VYC4lER4Z
For some chapters will not be understood with the mind—but only felt by the heart.

Author: Pham Le Quy

DEDICATION

To those who’ve felt they never truly belonged,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNYTnRCFOwP
who’ve been rejected, misunderstood, or torn between two opposing winds—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhwFc0GX7MY
one of the past, and one of longing.

To the hybrid souls—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡigmElxPcNs
not only by blood, but by experience.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwWKqVBMDIC
Those who’ve lived on the fault line between East and West,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbFHpNr06Lu
between sacrifice and selfishness, between love and resentment.

This story is for you.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh6t8tSaaSO
And for me—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5LjvT8cUWk
someone who once had to learn how to forgive.

BLURB

"When blood is no longer pure, can the soul still have a name?"

Born in the body of a Vietnamese boy—with tan skin, black hair, and the wistful eyes of the East—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeImcgjtgR1
she (yes, she) never imagined that destiny would tear her apart.

A blood transfusion at age fourteen—meant to save her life—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPEVn0RJRW2
becomes the beginning of a journey of possession, multiplicity, prejudice, and pain.

The soul of a Western woman—wife of a Vietnamese man from a previous life—awakens within her.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVsabVwQNbj
From that moment on, she is no longer one person.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJqycWvVxx0
She becomes a fragment of history, an echo of the past, a threshold between East and West, male and female, sinner and survivor.

Rejected by schools, abandoned by her own twin sister, scorned by a society that despises “hybridity,” and belittled for her intellect, gender, and origin—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCKXvB4bZ0l
she continues to live.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQZCO9I49eN
Not to be accepted.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMWH28RmYYq
But to prove: she is real.

She studies. She loves. She aches. She forgives.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWbRv1nIXrt
She does not choose revenge—she chooses existence.

No one sees the tear in her heart,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvV0gxSQCLd
but all see her rise.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaEcjBg7kvs
No one hears her sob in the shadows,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGs2MhVTOSp
but all witness her smile—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMntoOZpvtK
like a lotus blooming in the mud,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxxwSe1lasj
not as radiant as a rose,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaDgcZjyUlJ
but resilient enough to survive.

And if you’ve ever felt unseen,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtJvCf895Uf
if you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcdBkNMqyVm
then this story is for you.

Not to pity you—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCcuC6JbpN6
but to remind you that somewhere in this world,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡClVFfBUSOQ
someone has lived as you have.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSDj9sbd63v
And is still living.

Copyright Paper

All rights reserved.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLgy0Y5c39q
No part of this publication may be copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the author or publisher, except for brief quotations used for critical reviews or academic purposes with proper attribution.

Title: The One Who Carries Two Winds71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡawn7T7dQ4R
Author: Pham Le Quy71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBIfsMLNj0r
Editor: [if applicable]71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvlYPfIrWpY
Cover Design: [if applicable]71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa4UOm9lcpL
Illustration: [if applicable]71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx7Acwih2tU
Publisher: [Self-published or Name of Publisher]71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5e7qOocvrK
First Published: 202571Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg74105D38h
ISBN: [To be assigned if printed or registered]71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV0xy39w4LK
Country of Publication: Vietnam

All characters, events, and places in this novella are fictional.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk26giPqd65
Any resemblance to actual persons, organizations, or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Contact: [email protected]

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pham Le Quy – a writer who does not claim to be an author,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNIXQaPWZtp
but rather someone searching for words for the things that never had names.

Born at the crossroads of many cultures, Quy carries deep questions about identity, belonging, and the meaning of compassion in a world increasingly divided by prejudice, norms, and inherited wounds.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4BN5mroXLO
Out of that imbalance, The One Who Carries Two Winds was conceived—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNC5sWacbP7
as a deeply personal yet universally resonant journey of healing.

With academic backgrounds in language, psychology, and education,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlDpIEjg5on
Quy does not write from training, but from living.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxr2NAwsOmg
For this author, writing is not a career—it is survival.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf4ydgZIvHT
Writing to breathe. Writing to remember.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFw9frUO5Rj
Writing to forgive—oneself, and those who unintentionally caused harm.

When not writing, Quy teaches, researches, and listens.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIwHxHw5zsw
In the quietest moments, the author believes:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV4jMdMaJyS
some stories can only be told through pain—and the courage to walk through it.

EDITOR'S NOTE (BY THE AUTHOR)

The One Who Carries Two Winds is not a conventional novella.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPgyeMFlQFg
It is a blend of memoir, myth, biography, and literature.

Upon receiving the first manuscript, the author did not see this as a linear narrative,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLWSv6zUzyD
but rather as the journey of a soul through three lifetimes, three layers of time, and three cultural landscapes—East, West, and the in-between.

The storytelling is intentionally non-linear, rich in symbolism and allegory,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgjyqNteP9B
unbound by traditional forms.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgWqaM9sPfC
The chapters do not simply follow chronological order,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWFvD7EBKqH
but rather unfold like layers of memory, reincarnation, and self-discovery—each peeling back the psyche of the main character.

A few notes for reading:

The work employs frequent use of metaphor, personified souls, and ontological transformation. If read quickly, it may feel elusive. The author encourages slow, even repeated reading to absorb the layered meanings.
At times, the protagonist undergoes shifts in gender, identity, even ego—these are not plot inconsistencies, but deliberate artistic choices reflecting the fragmentation and reassembly of the self.
The chapters are constructed like spiritual psalms, each a step toward awakening—from trauma to understanding, from rage to forgiveness, from resentment to release.
Elements like genealogies, reincarnation cycles, hidden histories, bloodline dynamics, and social exclusion serve not only as cultural metaphors but as reflections of the very real pain of being “othered.”

This novella may wound you—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg5JuTBSQm9
but it may also become your medicine.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTjEElGnyCL
A journey of self-healing.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7JqeuxXfe2
A voice for the silenced soul.

The author humbly presents this novella as something to be read—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqRjrdtitoi
not with the eyes,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ36OI91Cpq
but with the heart.

Chapter I: The One Who Carries Two Winds

The boy was born on a July morning, when the southern breeze still carried the sultry remnants of summer, and the northern wind whispered a cold promise from beyond the horizon. People say that children born at the turn of seasons often carry dual destinies. But no one expected that this boy would carry two winds within him—one of origin, and one of fate.

He was named An—a name that sounded like a wish for a peaceful life. But from his very first cry, An was not cradled in familiar arms. There was no lullaby, no warmth of a mother, no steady presence of a father. The hospital recorded the names of his parents, but the room he returned to was a silent apartment on the twelfth floor, its windows shut, its walls sliced by the shadows of dusk.

An's parents were Vietnamese, living in the heart of bustling Saigon, but their hearts had long wandered toward dollar-shaped dreams. His father drove for an export company. His mother was an accountant who clung to numbers more than hugs. They believed loving their child meant working tirelessly, depositing money into savings, and leaving the child to the care of a housemaid. But An never understood how love could feel so absent. Dinner was a box of cold rice. Concern came in the form of sticky notes hastily slapped on the fridge. A birthday meant a lone candle stuck into a piece of stale bread.

The early years of An’s life passed like a slow-motion film. He learned to speak not through stories, but through TV news reports. He learned to write not for letters, but to jot down reminders for surviving alone. The house became a glass cage—transparent, clean, but utterly soundproof to the outside world. No children’s laughter, no hurried footsteps running into a parent's embrace, only the sound of wind slipping through window cracks and the dull yellow of streetlights fading like memory.

At school, An was the silent one. During recess, he sat alone in a corner of the yard, hugging his backpack like it was a small world no one else could comprehend. His classmates called him "weirdo," "bookworm," sometimes even "invisible." No one understood why he never smiled. No one knew that every time he was shoved, he bowed his head, never resisting, never crying. Perhaps because An’s tears had long been buried—like a dried-up well in a land where it never rained.

Yet in that dim space, a faint light flickered—from the classroom podium. The teachers, though they never spoke of it, always had a different look in their eyes when they saw him. In An, they saw a strange maturity, an ancient sadness, as if from another life. One day, his literature teacher quietly said after class: "An, your eyes look like someone who's lived through many winters." He didn’t fully grasp her words, but they touched something deep inside—a place even he couldn't name.

An loved books. Not because they made him smarter, but because in each page, he found fragments of souls lost in the real world. He read Dostoevsky like meeting an old friend, saw himself in Kafka’s obsessions, and cried at the final lines of Les Misérables — not from sentimentality, but because, for the first time, he felt understood.

Some nights, with wind brushing past his window, An would sit at a small desk, writing a journal in two languages: one in his mother tongue, and one in the language of the novels that had saved him. The ink wavered across the paper—sometimes confessions, sometimes whispers to a distant place in the universe. "I don’t know where I come from," An wrote, "but I know I carry two winds inside me. One from a past I couldn’t choose, and one from a future whose path I cannot see."

From a young age, An seemed to live more than one life. He had recurring dreams where he stood on an unfamiliar shore, heard voices in a language no one taught him, and saw his hands covered in blood for reasons he didn’t know. He once told an adult—only to be met with a dismissive laugh and advice not to dream so wildly. But deep down, An knew something remained untold.

Then one day, a strange wind blew through his neighborhood. It wasn’t hot, nor cold—but it carried a foreign scent: pinewood and aged paper, like the memory of a world never visited. For the first time in years, An looked up and felt something shift within—like a door quietly opening. He wondered, "Is the wind trying to tell me something?"

From that day on, An began recording his dreams. He called them "displaced memories." In them, there was war, a lost lover, a stone bridge leading to an ancient pagoda, and the laughter of a child calling him "Father." These images repeated, clearer than reality. An didn’t know if they were hallucinations or remnants of a past life refusing to fade.

At school, the principal summoned him after a composition left the faculty in prolonged silence. The essay was titled "The Loneliness of a Shadow." It had no personal pronouns—only the image of a shadow silently existing in others' worlds, never allowed to be itself. "Where did you learn to write like someone who’s lived through war?" the principal asked. An just smiled: "I don't know, sir."

An's world didn’t change. His parents remained absent. The housemaid still brought dinner. But something inside had shifted. The winds were no longer invisible. He began to feel them: the wind of his homeland, sorrowful like a mother’s lullaby; and the wind of a faraway place—so distant he didn’t dare name it.

One day, An stood on the rooftop, eyes on the sunset. The wind blew hard, tossing his dark hair like it was summoning a reunion forgotten for centuries. He closed his eyes. In that moment—no car horns, no school, no miscalled names—only two winds colliding, creating a silent note. And between them, An stood—like a bridge between two shores—not to choose, but to listen.

Chapter II: Strange Blood – The Western Curse

When An was fourteen, the first pain arrived one scorching afternoon at the height of a sunburned summer. He collapsed onto the classroom floor like a bird struck mid-flight, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood and his ears ringing with ghostly sounds. His classmates panicked, teachers rushed to help, but An—in a haze—saw only a red tide retreating from his body, as if the sea had come to carry away his memories.

The hospital was swift in its diagnosis: Helicobacter pylori—a vicious parasite that had silently eroded his stomach lining, like nightfall swallowing a lonely room. Blood poured out, urgently and endlessly, as if trying to erase a part of his soul. An lost over eighty percent of his blood—a number usually reserved for obituaries.

A transfusion was urgent. But the blood bank lacked his rare type. At that desperate moment, a Western woman—on a volunteer trip in Vietnam—agreed to donate her blood without hesitation. They called it a borderless act of humanity. But no one knew that the moment her blood flowed through the tubes and touched An’s heart, something irreversibly changed.

He survived. But from that second on, something inside him was no longer whole.

The first night after surgery, An dreamed of a vast lavender field. The sky above was a pale mint, gentle and strange. He stood there in ceremonial white clothes that belonged to no culture he knew. At the end of the misty path, a blonde woman waited—her eyes deep as forest lakes.

“An?”—her voice was soft as silk, yet it pierced his soul.

“I used to be your wife. Now, I am you.”

An awoke in a sweat, his body cold as if it had walked through snow. He stared at his hands—sun-kissed like any Vietnamese boy’s—but something within had changed.

From then on, the dreams returned—erratic, illogical. Sometimes, he sat by an old wooden window, writing letters in French. Sometimes, he was a woman trembling under air-raid sirens. Sometimes, he knelt before a cathedral’s cross, weeping for no reason he could understand. These were not An’s memories—yet they ached with familiarity.

One night, he opened his phone and searched: lavender fields, Provence, European wartime widows... and to his horror, every image he had dreamed of existed—in another hemisphere. He had never learned French, yet in sleep, he recited Apollinaire’s poetry, dreamed of the Loire River, and sometimes—cried for a man named Étienne.

An told no one. How could he? At fourteen, one is allowed to dream, but not to reincarnate. He feared his parents would send him to a psychiatrist. He feared teachers would label him “post-trauma hallucination.” But above all, he feared that speaking the truth would make it disappear—like dew under sunlight.

But the change wasn't only in dreams. Slowly, An’s habits shifted. He began drinking Earl Grey instead of iced coffee. He stopped reading Japanese comics and turned to Proust, to Colette. His writing became layered, tender—as if another hand were guiding his pen. His literature teacher asked quietly, “An, your writing has changed. Is there something you want to tell me?” An only smiled, eyes distant: “Maybe I’m just growing up, sir.”

He knew it was a lie. He wasn’t just growing—he was transforming. In his veins flowed the blood of that Western woman—not just biologically, but spiritually. With it came memories, longings, and a silent curse: to continue living, even without a form.

As he grew, the conflict within him deepened. On one side, the rooted self—An of Saigon, of dust and untold mother-tales. On the other, the unseen woman—a soul who had lost everything, now dwelling in her former husband’s body, rediscovering herself through each breath, each gaze. Sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, his familiar brown eyes shimmered with gray—like a European winter sky.

One afternoon, he found himself at a dusty bookstore, instinctively picking a fragile French novel titled Lettre à l’ombre. One line struck him silent:

“I shall live within the one I love—even after my ashes are scattered.”

He closed the book, hands trembling. That sentence—it wasn’t just a line. It was his reality.

No one believed him. But the universe did.

From that day, even the world around him shifted. Western winds—cold, scented with butter and old fairytales—began to sweep through tropical afternoons. Strange birds perched on his windowsill. Some nights, a violin melody floated through the air, though no one was playing. Once, he paused at a market stall, lured by the scent of toasted baguettes—something he’d never liked before.

And then, the soul spoke.

Her voice came not in words, but in feelings, instincts, memories trickling into his every moment. He never knew her name, but she knew all his pain. When classmates mocked him, she whispered, “Don’t bow your head. I once stood alone in an empty square and still sang.” When he wrote late into the night, she smiled, “I too once loved the light of candles.”

It wasn’t possession. It was coexistence.

An knew—he was now two people in one body. One, a Vietnamese boy. One, a woman from a distant land. Two winds. Two bloodlines. Two origins. Both abandoned. Both surviving. Both walking forward.

But he also knew—one day, he would have to face the truth. He had to discover who she was. He had to name the soul that had merged into his blood. He had to rewrite the story—not just of a teenager, but of a love that had died and returned in the most unexpected form.

And so, An was no longer just An.

He was the one who carried two hearts—one beating for the present, one for the past.

The curse had been cast. The path was unmarked.

But the wind had changed direction.

Chapter III: The Unwanted Hybrid

An never understood why his heart ached like a salted wound whenever he stood before French speakers who wore their pride like perfume. He couldn’t explain why, whenever he passed a war monument, an invisible guilt surged in his blood—like a verdict yet to be spoken, one his soul had already begun to serve in silence.

Only when the woman’s soul inside him began whispering fragmented memories did An start to grasp: this life was never his alone. He was a child born of fate’s collision—an unwanted hybrid, a grafted branch between two roots that once stood on opposing sides.

“You once called me a flower blooming on barren land,” the woman’s voice murmured on a cold, rainy night. “But I never imagined that land was a grave.”

And then, the images emerged—not through his eyes, but through his blood. A blonde woman, skin like porcelain, eyes as pale and distant as a frozen lake, stood in a white áo dài, at the altar of a wedding in a destitute Vietnamese village. Everything was silent—a silence not of blessing, but of refusal. No smiles. No firecrackers. That wedding was no celebration, but a sentence pronounced between two worlds.

The groom—a frail, quiet Vietnamese man—had once studied in France after the war. He had returned with hopes of building a home, but also with wounds no one could see: disdainful stares, refused handshakes, and the crushing shame of being called a “traitor to his people.”

Their love could not survive the weight of collective memory—the kind of memory that history smears on the faces of those still living: that Westerners brought opium, brought uniforms, brought boots that crushed native souls.

The wife had done no wrong. But in the eyes of the village, she embodied every wrongdoing embroidered over generations. And the husband—who had never once shaken hands with a French officer nor sold a single inch of his homeland—was nonetheless ground down by a hatred passed from tongue to tongue.

An felt his chest weighed down like stone.

He began to dream of the man being beaten—not with fists, but with insults, with condemning stares, and the icy silence of his own mother, who had once burned his wedding photo with her bare hands, saying, “You dare marry a Western woman?”

In the dreams, the woman did not cry. But her eyes looked like rivers that had run out of blood—too dry even for tears.

They were banished from the village, cast out to the remote highlands where the land remained untouched and hearts unpoisoned by prejudice. There, beneath pine-covered hills and a sky that made no distinction between races, they built a wooden home. They believed love was enough. But war came anyway.

One day, a unit of guerrilla fighters stumbled into the region. Seeing the blonde woman, they attacked. Not to violate—but to punish. This was what An would never forget: the woman—whose soul now flowed through his veins—was tied to a post like a symbol of the enemy, so that the men could “purge” their loss of homeland by torturing the innocent.

The husband came too late. He arrived to find her moaning in French, her voice trembling:

“Je t’ai attendu, mais je me suis perdue.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgay2r2scDA
"I waited for you, but I lost myself."

He cradled her in the smoldering ruins of their home, her blood soaking through his shirt. He screamed, but the mountain winds were too high. No one heard.

An woke up clutching his chest, heart splintered in silent agony. He had never known love, yet his heart felt shattered. He had never lived through war, yet the sound of boots haunted him like thunder.

He understood: the blood had passed. So had the curse.

No one had taught him to hate. But whenever he stood near people who condemned the West, he shivered. When he heard someone sneer, “Those half-breeds shame our ancestors,” his cheeks flushed—not in rage, but confusion. Because he, too, no longer knew where he belonged.

He was the child of two forsaken souls: a woman who never found a homeland, and a man who was never forgiven. And now, they lived again—through him—as if trying to prove that love could survive, even in the ashes of history.

At school, An changed.

He was no longer the boy who bowed his head and stayed silent. In literature class, he wrote about fractured selves. In history, he asked, “Can history forgive?” He startled teachers, unsettled classmates. Some said he was “too Western.” Others accused him of pretending. But An knew: he wasn’t pretending. He was only the voice of two souls, finally speaking.

He began searching—medical records, hospital archives—for the woman who had donated blood. After months of quiet effort, a letter arrived.

Her name was Émilie Dufresne—a French-Swiss cultural researcher who had studied Indochina. In the letter, she wrote that on the night of the transfusion, she’d had a strange dream. She saw herself crying in a Vietnamese temple, clutching a faded photograph.

“Who are you?” she wrote.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB7uATbqjvP
“And why do I feel as if I’ve lived inside your body before?”

An never replied. He knew that answering would shatter something fragile. He wasn’t ready.

But he folded the letter, tucked it into a secret drawer of his desk, and wrote on it:

“I am the hybrid no one asked for. But I live—because I am the apology neither side ever spoke.”

Chapter IV: The Twin Sister – A Cloned Soul

Some lives are not lived once but unravel in layers—fractals of existence, like mirrors facing mirrors, reflecting endlessly with no trace of origin. An—or more precisely, the entity now living under that name—had already crossed three lifetimes. But fate, ever ruthless, split him once more. This time into a new form—more fragile, more complex, and far more painful: a “twin sister”—not by blood, but by soul.

It began one crescent-moon night. In his dream, An sat across from a girl in a long white dress, her hair cascading like silk, her eyes both tender and piercing, as if she could see through to the marrow of being. She didn’t speak, only looked. But that gaze reflected his essence—not his form, but a soul turned inside out.

She spoke without lips, with pure intuition:

“I am your twin sister. But I am also you.”

An woke with a jolt. Sweat soaked his collar. His hands trembled. He stared at himself in the mirror—and for the first time, wasn’t sure the reflection was truly his.

Then came the changes.

An no longer wrote like a boy. His handwriting softened, became rounded, like the gentle smile of a girl. He examined his nails and found them kept with an almost unconscious care, as though a tender instinct had bloomed from within. Passing by dress shops, his heart fluttered—not with desire, but with an eerie nostalgia, like part of his body long rejected had returned, asking to be remembered.

At school, people noticed—not because he was excelling, but because he was different. The boys began to keep their distance. The girls watched him with half-curious, half-guarded glances. Some whispered that An was “effeminate.” Others sneered, “He’s probably trans in the head.” But no one understood: An wasn’t just one person. He was two—or perhaps more.

He didn’t deny it. But he couldn’t affirm anything either. Because he no longer understood himself.

The soul of the Vietnamese man—the husband who had once loved and lost, exiled for daring to marry a Western woman—had been reborn. But this time, not into a masculine body, but into a soft, fragmented echo of a soul, split from its former frame to become his own “twin sister.”

Part of that man lived in An—a negative imprint, distorted, reversed. No longer a man. Not quite a boy. But her. A woman, living in a boy’s body, carrying the memories of both—and of something uniquely her own.

An began to call that part of himself A Nhi—a way to humanize, and to separate. But the more he tried to separate, the more she blended. A Nhi no longer appeared only in dreams. She crept into choices, into side-glances, into the moments when An paused at a stranger’s face—familiar yet foreign—perhaps because in another lifetime, A Nhi had once loved, birthed, or been born to them.

She whispered:

“I am the part you left behind when you became a man.”

An felt like he was carrying a soul—not in his belly, but in his chest, in his blood. A soft soul, deep and tearful, with more silence than speech.

Gradually, he let her speak for him.

In literature class, his essays shimmered with femininity—not fragility, but profound sensitivity. “Love is not possession,” he wrote, “but an echo that survives across lifetimes.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKHl64UPNt1
“Are you writing from personal experience, An?” the teacher asked gently.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7tOFpReje5
He bowed his head, unable to answer.

In history, during a lesson on patriarchal feudalism, he stood up and said,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6c3UgqMwCd
“Men have always written history, but women carry the true memory of humankind.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJiyNwpnJtd
The class fell silent. Someone snorted. But An didn’t flinch—because he knew it wasn’t him speaking. It was A Nhi, rising from the depths of his unconscious to finally be heard.

Every night, An and A Nhi conversed in silence. He’d lie staring at the ceiling, feeling her presence beside the bed. She would tell stories—of living in a man’s body, of the helplessness of not being able to cry, of the pain of pretending strength when weakness hollowed her out.

“As a man, I lost the right to be soft. As a woman, I lost the right to be myself.”

An didn’t know how to embrace her—how do you hold someone who lives in the same body? But his throat thickened, and the tears that welled weren’t his alone.

One rainy afternoon, An saw his reflection in a misted window. And for the first time, he didn’t ask, “Who am I?” but:

“Who are we?”

There was no answer. Only the sound of rain—like a wordless lullaby for cloned souls.

He wrote in his journal:

“I am the body of a boy. But within me lives my sister—who is also me—who once loved me. I no longer live one life. I am a composite of unquiet ghosts, unnamed, unmet, misunderstood.”

That same day, he impulsively cut off his shoulder-length hair—a favorite of A Nhi’s. And right after, he wept. Not for the hair—but for the feeling that he was rejecting part of himself.

She said:

“It’s all right. I don’t live in your hair. I live in your heart. And no matter what name you bear—you are me.”

From that day forward, An lived with many names.

To his friends: he was An—the quiet, contemplative boy.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGUoUJfXPmW
To the mirror: he was A Nhi—the unseen twin, always present.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe1MZsUrN14
In dreams: he was both—the lover and the beloved, the one lost and the one reborn.

The world didn’t know what to make of him. His parents—if they ever found out—might deny him. His friends—if they ever saw—might reject him. But An no longer feared that. Because now, he was no longer alone.

He was a cloned soul—flawed, fragmented, and fiercely real.

And more than anything, he understood this truth: people may deny what is strange.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgRLwy6bgLG
But they cannot deny this—

That inside every human being lives a twin sister, unnamed and waiting.

Chapter V: Conspiracy and the Cost

In the depths of every culture lies a lingering fear—a fear of difference, of hybridity, of anything that blurs the lines carved over centuries: East and West, man and woman, native and foreign. For Nguyên, the Vietnamese younger brother, this fear wasn’t just a feeling—it was a conviction. A belief that blood must be pure, roots unmixed, order preserved. And anyone who disrupted that order deserved to pay the price.

He grew up with invisible hatred. His parents had once been deceived by a Western woman in a failed investment deal. Since then, in his mind, “Western” meant cunning, deceit, shame. That rage grew with him—like a needle lodged in his spine: it neither killed him nor let him rest. So when he looked at An—or more precisely, at the mixed-race girl living inside An’s body—he saw not a person, but a symbol of all he despised: a Western soul cloaked in Vietnamese skin, a gaze that softened yet defied gender boundaries, a smile suspended between two worlds.

To him, An’s existence was an insult.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6spLWb1SOv
To him, An was a cursed blend.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfiySFdRKvo
So, he devised a plan—not to kill, but to defile. To punish.

It happened on a rainy afternoon. The city was soaked, like a soul sobbing in silence. An had been summoned to a student group meeting, but found himself alone in a locked room. In front of him: Nguyên, his face calm and chilling. Behind him: a hidden camera, a metal chair, and a vial of anesthetic.

An was naive. He never imagined someone of the same blood, same nationality, same tongue—would use that very familiarity as a weapon.

“If you wake up and realize you’ve been violated,” Nguyên whispered,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUzRGH47hjj
“you’ll know no half-breed lives in peace on this land.”

An fought back. A Nhi’s soul screamed. But the drug worked faster than pain.

And just before he lost consciousness, he heard the voice of the woman from long ago:

“There are pains that do not kill us—but tear us into pieces.”

He woke in the infirmary, body aching, memories hazy. He couldn’t recall exactly what happened—only that a piece of his soul felt torn. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just sat there—still—as though his spirit had left his body.

And into that silence, another figure stepped.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNqlhPXH3Pq
Not Nguyên.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj0CZ04uccq
But Linh—his sister.

Linh had once been the embodiment of Vietnamese grace—long hair, soft voice, straight-A student, always compared to An. But beneath that obedient façade burned a quiet fury: a longing to be chosen, seen, validated. She believed An—with his strange aura and mixed heritage—had stolen the gaze that should’ve belonged to her.

She couldn’t stand that the West loved An. She especially couldn’t accept that the man she admired—a French-Asian scholar who once praised An’s writing as having “the melody of two languages”—looked at him with warmth. She was furious that she’d never been called “unique.” She’d only ever been called “correct.”

And in a blind act of envy, she gave the order:

“Inject him. The memory-wiping kind. Erase his selfhood. Let him forget everything—and I’ll become him.”

The drug was administered. Not once, but in rounds. Gently, like a spiritual cleansing. Day by day, An forgot—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT9GTRYQLDz
Not the world,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUMb66TSwNt
but himself.

He forgot he had been A Nhi.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqGWFw3Y6Zi
Forgot he had once been a husband.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAueRfv3zEW
Forgot the golden-haired woman who had wept in his dreams.

But what they didn’t know was this:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC6zIsekXEv
The soul cannot be killed by drugs.

In the fractured realm of forgotten dreams, A Nhi stood in a boundless white room—no walls, no exit.

“You didn’t kill me,” she said, voice soft as a dandelion seed.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy0Ah17hArV
“You only erased the memories. But I live deeper than that.”

Night after night, she began piecing together shards of shattered mirrors. She wrote on them in phantom blood:

“Remember me. I am your sister. I am the betrayed self. But I will return.”

In the real world, Linh began taking An’s place. She wrote like him. She mimicked his speech. She wore his clothes—blended East and West, defied gender. She even mirrored the quiet sorrow he once carried.

At first, no one noticed. But something felt… off.

She didn’t have An’s eyes.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBep8H3Arfc
She lacked the ambiguity of a soul reborn through lifetimes.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH0YlMn348l
She was only a shadow.

Then, the teacher who once praised An’s writing spoke up:

“You resemble him—but you’re not him. There’s something… lifeless in your eyes.”

After weeks of wandering like a ghost, An dreamed again—of the sea.

But this sea had no waves.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡje37KFrBS9
No color.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpSq3OQYzaj
Only A Nhi, waiting for him.

She reached out, gently touched his heart:

“We were violated. But pain cannot kill a soul. You have the right to return—not for revenge, but to rise.”

An awoke. His memory hadn’t fully returned. But his eyes had changed. They’d seen life torn apart—and still wanted to see more.

He walked into the schoolyard.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3pVqkGncfn
And for the first time, he spoke aloud:

“Some people are born outside the norm. But that doesn’t mean they deserve to be erased.”

Nguyên froze. Linh stood still. The entire courtyard fell silent.

That day, A Nhi returned—not to mourn, but to live.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0BnIfguKOH
An was no longer a victim. Nor a vengeful soul.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWuNeyHYlzl
He was a witness—of all that had been twisted, denied, and finally… remembered.

And from the ashes of conspiracy, that soul rose—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjaGXJgtV5b
like wild grass blooming through the cracks of history.

Chapter VI: The Exchange and the Inner Struggle

Perhaps no one truly lives just one life. For some, memories intertwine, roles trade places, and the soul is reshaped by unseen hands. And only when everything that was once called “me” becomes distorted, do we begin to understand: there are selves too fractured to be named.

Since the light returned after the darkness of conspiracy and injections, An—or rather, the being that once bore that name—was no longer a single person. She was a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a fractured identity:

A Vietnamese man who once loved across the shores of prejudice.
A Western woman bound by an unfulfilled vow.
A child abused between two cultures.
A former wife, still in love but unable to return.
A twin sister—replica of a soul.
A victim, whose body and memory were violated.
And above all, a survivor—of the past, of war, of human cruelty.

She—no longer accurately called “he”—was exiled from the West with a letter drenched in pity:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtmQuXpOLSN
“You do not align with the institution’s current cultural direction.”

What they didn’t say aloud was the truth: fear—fear of a being too complex to classify.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9QRGVuKugc
They didn’t know which gender box to place An in, which language, which identity.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtRG7atfa64
So instead of understanding, they erased.

The plane brought her back to Vietnam—the land of her mother, the body’s birthplace. But the moment she stepped off the plane, she knew this was no longer home.

People stared at her with strange looks:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbjWsCRjgYu
“What kind of boy looks like a girl?”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvgrLTGjwKI
“Has that mixed-race kid caught some Western sickness?”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb1qy61zCp0
“What’s wrong with those eyes—they look like they’re seeing through you?”

No one saw the broken mirror inside her—only unfamiliar traces on the surface.

An international education organization reached out. They didn’t truly care about her past. They simply saw a “multi-purpose” commodity: fluent in English, with a bit of past fame, and above all… an Asian appearance with Western eyes. They offered her a “mission”: to be a bridge in talks about gender, culture, and ethnic reconciliation.

They wanted her to be “the face of identity harmony.”

What they didn’t know was:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUwgThlHKil
She no longer had a face to represent anyone.

She was paired at a public event with a conservative Vietnamese scholar—one who once declared on national television:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJEzkdw3qY1
“National identity must be pure. No mixing, no distortion, no dilution.”

They made her smile. Made her hold his hand. As if two extremes of the world could be reconciled with a single publicity photo.

She stood there, smiling, while within her, the screams of fragmented souls echoed:

The man in her whispered: “We are betraying ourselves.”
The woman sobbed: “We’re being used as tools again.”
The child asked: “Who’s living in my place?”

No one heard. Only her.

That night, she vomited violently in the hotel bathroom. The face in the mirror was no longer whole. Every time she touched her eyes, she saw someone else’s gaze. Each voice in her head had a different timbre. She no longer knew who she was—nor who was real.

Some mornings, she awoke speaking in a hoarse male voice.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgSmThtOuh9
Some days, she looked at her hands and found them foreign, moving without conscious will.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQTZx0t7z6O
Some nights, she wrote love letters in French—perfectly, without having learned. Each word, each flourish, matched the old woman from her dreams.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSGT7KKIbws
Some mornings, she stood before the mirror, applied lipstick, and smiled—not her own smile.

People said she was acting.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzMeQsyIHi7
But the truth was:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuNv23YY6pG
She no longer had a self to perform.

A journalist came to interview her, wanting to write a feature on “the phenomenon of An—the one who carries many souls.”

She agreed, on one condition:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0hC4ZYgs8p
“Do not assign me a label.”

The article was published. It caused a stir.

Some praised her as a living emblem of diversity.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdor2y3gt7v
Others condemned her as “a cultural aberration.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL1BvC8RVdB
Online, her name was slapped with every tag: genderless, traitorous, progressive symbol, Westernized joke...

She smiled—a smile crumbling at the edges.

“No one is wrong,” she said during a speech.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKdQkAZGk1B
“Because I am everything you say I am. But also none of it.”

One day, she received a handwritten letter. No sender.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKGAyiN8OUo
Inside, a single line:

“Every wounded soul needs a place to rest. You are that place. But who will rest you?”

She read it over and over. And finally, wept.

No one had ever asked her that.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrZFHUbMTmd
Not one person who stood beside her in the crowd had ever stopped to wonder what she needed.

No one asked:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj5PqIisGwe
Are you tired? Are you in pain? Are you afraid?

She asked herself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJLfr4Kpnda
And didn’t know the answer.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

She wrote a letter to a future “me”—some version of herself, if still alive, who might one day remember:

I was once the face of harmony, but in truth only a stage for endless battles.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKe6VVrKL0M
I was once the bridge between East and West, but in truth a rope pulled from both ends.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYULfqDThr7
I lived under many names, many genders, many memories.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr0zRqrsWdo
But at my core, I was just a soul no one believed was real.

If one day you—my future self—read this letter, please forgive me:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhVeGndYRDx
Forgive me for wanting to die.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWrfhZby43s
Forgive me for trying to live behind someone else’s face.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeqyF22V3iV
Forgive me… for still not knowing who I am.

She folded the letter and tucked it beneath her pillow.

Then looked up at the ceiling—where there were no mirrors, only darkness.

And in that darkness, she was no longer alone.

Because all the broken pieces—man, woman, victim, survivor—were gathering again.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgaJB0DlhPP
Not to form a perfect figure,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJf2ZQ83CP1
but to form a human—one who needs no name.

Chapter VII: A Conclusion or a Curse Repeated?

They say destiny is a circle.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXZ3I5I3opH
But some circles never close—they just spiral endlessly, like a whirlpool dragging the soul downward. Not to die, but to dissolve.

Nguyên, the Vietnamese younger brother—the one who once orchestrated the conspiracy, who once carved fate with a blade—began to dream strange dreams.

In his dreams, he sat on a throne of bamboo, in a grand hall filled with Westerners—all dressed in áo dài, eating fish sauce, calling him “Master,” “Ancestor,” “The Reviver of the Race.”

He smiled.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuehoAx35eN
He thought it was victory.

He dreamed of standing atop a mountain, holding aloft a map: no more France, America, or Britain—only Vietnam, stretched across the globe.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAf24G4SWv1
He heard Vietnamese echo through European cathedrals, saw white children reading The Tale of Kiều instead of Andersen, saw Paris draped in red flags with yellow stars.

He called it “the dream of cultural revenge.”

But the deeper he dreamed, the more he lost his way.

One time, he pointed at a blonde child in his dream and said:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfSNw3E3aEb
“You must call me Grandpa.”

The child smiled and replied, in a Vietnamese laced with French:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3EnOQB3HPY
“But Grandpa... you’re my Grandma, aren’t you?”

That line sliced through his mind like a blade.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaRRE1M0lTN
He woke drenched in sweat, vision blurring, as if the world around him was melting into a river—and in that river, the blood of East and West had mixed, indistinguishably.

Nguyên went searching for his sister.

Linh—the woman who had once ordered injections, who once stole identities like pretty clothes.

He looked at her and asked:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNOdZmfR8jW
“Are you still Vietnamese?”

She smiled—a smile he’d never seen before, half gentle, half frost.

“What do you think it means to be Vietnamese?”

“Someone who hasn’t been Westernized. Someone who preserves their roots.”

“And what are those roots?”

He fell silent.

“What our ancestors passed down,” he replied slowly.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp0JlBPNph9
“Blood. Language. Way of life...”

“Then tell me—did any ancestor ever marry a Westerner?”

That simple question left Nguyên speechless.

Then Linh said:

“You know… there are days I speak French more naturally than Vietnamese.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaXMff13Wa4
There are nights I dream of floating in lavender fields, not rice paddies.”

“So you’ve betrayed your people?”

“No,” she answered softly.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjeILM4FqNi
“I’ve only accepted the parts of me I can no longer deny.”

Nguyên stepped out of her house, hollow.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG6kF6wONHs
All the ideals he had clung to—purity, heritage, honor—began to crumble.

He went searching for the mixed-blood girl—the one he once called a disaster, a chaos.

An—no longer bearing that name—was living quietly in a small house, teaching orphaned children.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkPqio39bOV
Children who didn’t know their parents.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtYPlfmyR2j
Children who didn’t know whether their blood was “pure” or “mixed.”

He looked at her—the one who had once been his husband in a past life, now a girl with a fragmented soul.

She looked back at him.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhpTgNs4CZG
Her gaze held no anger, no blame—only the deep stillness of a dried-up lake.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I… don’t know,” he answered honestly.

“You want to ask me who I am?” she gave a faint smile.

He nodded.

She pointed to the children learning to spell:

“They don’t know who they are either. But they live, they learn, they love.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX5zgQe6eba
Maybe… knowing who you are matters less than living like someone who knows how to love.”

He bowed his head.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfgyaWe6sgJ
For the first time, he felt small.

That night, he dreamed of standing before a mirror.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5w9N6LnlJc
But it didn’t reflect him.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKkXIykMRNU
Instead, faces—male, female, white, yellow, ancient, modern—flashed across the glass, appearing and vanishing.

In the end, the mirror shattered.

And a voice echoed in his head:

“When blood is blended, no one is the host. No one is the guest.”

The next morning, he wrote a letter.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4M8n5BOH2m
Not addressed to anyone.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0fyeAJZ9GW
Just left it on the table:

**“I once wanted to make the world a replica of myself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJxFYjRgDTW
But I never knew who I was.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO6S2SdElw5
I once hated the mixed.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZNnmoEAry1
But now I understand: mixing isn’t betrayal—it’s a form of survival.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdSpHfCAQik
I thought I was preserving identity.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGFrN5HibZB
But really, I was afraid—because I never truly understood my own.

Now, I seek no one to punish.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUHiLuxvOsP
I only wish to learn how to listen.”**

No one saw Nguyên again.

Some say he secluded himself in the mountains.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLhgNxPz1gO
Others claim he went to Africa to volunteer.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLJXtOpyk59
Cruel tongues whispered that he went mad, struck by “cultural confusion.”

But those who truly understood said nothing.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv4A6v66yuj
Because they knew: he wasn’t gone.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvZoDhItGoN
He had simply dissolved—like all the things he once tried to fight.

And the mixed-blood girl?

She still lived.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdGqdCkh65Y
Still taught.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡveJwbvPwcf
Still wandered the markets, wearing a French scarf and a nón lá.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnCiESsmSEO
Some days she wore an áo dài.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡflPo3Zktt1
Other days, a vintage dress.

People didn’t know what to call her—he, she, madam, sir—so they called her the Nameless One.

She didn’t mind.

Because she knew:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUWFPhD2S2p
Once you’ve gone beyond names, there’s nothing left to prove.

On the final night of the changing winds, she wrote one line in her journal:

“This isn’t the end.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdlPlHY8KuQ
But if it is a curse,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVYUJzyqAup
Let me be the one to repeat it—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaLVHu5ErnC
So those who follow won’t have to.”

Chapter VIII: Blood Becomes Rivers – Tears Become Seas

On a windswept hilltop, nameless and unmapped, she stood.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6AMGsTeghW
The evening sun spilled across her thin blouse like a dragonfly’s wing, her hair dancing between two skies—one soaked in Northern mist, the other stained with Southern dust.

No one called her “the boy she once was.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYrg3xqlUid
No one remembered she had once been a man lost inside his own body, a wife seeking rebirth through another’s blood, a child whose soul was torn apart by unnamed ambitions.

She—the one who bore three lifetimes—carried no more names.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4qIS0feQ9g
Only wind. And a curse.

That curse—like a sorrowful melody—whispered in the breeze, not in sound, but in trembling:

“To claim the West, you must become the West.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsKGvEVDUIl
To keep Vietnam, never touch another’s blood.”

She once believed that.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgytVZ3OzwD
Once thought she was a mistake—an accident of history, a wrinkle in the silk of identity.

But when she witnessed the blood of three lives flowing through her veins, she understood:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOTH0qRXOQQ
Blood is not wrong—only too many people demand that it be pure.

Nguyên, the younger brother, had once believed that by making the West Vietnamese, he would triumph.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNFC3cIotEl
But he shattered—because no one can possess anything without losing part of themselves.

Linh, the sister, thought that if she stole An’s place, injected the drugs, rejected the foreign, she would be accepted.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvof5fWaKMw
But she was only ever accepted as a shadow—and spent a lifetime never finding her own light.

As for her—the mixed-blood girl—when asked one final time, “Who do you want to be?”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFFEIl3vtNt
She answered quietly:

“I don’t live to be someone’s wife.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyjH4uNi06K
Nor to be anyone’s version of anything.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNxHc0YD16x
I live like the wind—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaxCPoBTjJY
Free, without gender, without language, without nation.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmRdDQNXjTF
No one can keep me.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYgYfU8X029
But I abandon no one.”

On the last day of her public life, she burned all her documents: passport, ID, birth certificate, even the degrees that once made people worship her as a symbol.

A friend once asked:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPmLGfySzSA
“Then how will anyone prove who you are?”

She smiled and said only this:

“I don’t need to prove who I am.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOAnjiCmQ82
I only need to be remembered as someone who once truly felt alive.”

Years later, stories were told—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq4GBBbXsSR
That she crossed countless borders without papers. No one stopped her. No one ever really saw her.

They said—she once stayed in a monastery high in the Alps, where nuns had lost their languages but learned to listen to souls in silence.

They said—she once appeared in a Khmer village, teaching orphaned children how to write with nothing but smiles.

They said—she once lay on a boat drifting down the Perfume River, gazing at the sky and whispering:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0QFCaLJreT
“Don’t name me, so I may become the river.”

But no one knew—on a night when rain fell like blood, she returned to the place where her soul had been torn.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLTFbtk75Cl
The room where Nguyên staged his violation.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ18of3XyRPO
Where the drugs erased her essence.

She stepped in.

The room was abandoned. Door broken. Wind howling.

She knelt on the floor—where once her blood had dripped like red rain.

And for the first time in years, she cried.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHiwePe4PiJ
Not from hatred. Not from pain.

But from forgiveness.

A bowl of blood she poured from her own wrist—not to die, but to lift the curse.

Each drop that touched the ground bloomed into a pale lavender sprig.

And from within the wound, she whispered:

“The blood of three lifetimes never dries.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2rwBq8LtXE
But if people still believe—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxg2XEN6i1S
That life is not to assimilate, but to understand.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdFeuMDSlC6
That love is not to possess, but to liberate.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2MEorh8ZJf
…then from wounds, flowers may still bloom.”

No one found her after that night.

Only a single line, written in blood—dry but not blackened—remained on the cold tile floor:

“I am no one.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5RWeThiTex
But I am everyone ever torn in two by borders.”

Some built statues of her along national frontiers—but carved no name.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAvLBtg6C7O
Some wrote novels about her—but called her only The Winded One.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYPhL7fTi2O
Some called her a curse.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPCrmHY3NWP
Some, an apocalypse.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ13OqWdhKv6
Some—only whispered in the breeze—called her hope.

In a seaside village where the wind refused to choose direction,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI8se9dMLy1
a child once drew in the sand:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSvqI7vddG8
a figure with two arms—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXMo05aZ8af
one holding a stalk of Vietnamese rice,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡydY57JuEYI
the other a sprig of French lavender.

The child didn’t know who she was.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoegnCCBJgT
But still, they drew.

Because perhaps…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgX52SAQkwi
That soul never left.

It had only become the wind.

Chapter IX: Lotus in the Mud – Nameless Pride (Epilogue)

She walked out of her childhood like one emerging from a fire—smoke clinging to her skin, eyes red, hands trembling—but alive. And survival itself marked the beginning of a new journey: the journey of someone cast out, yet unwavering in preserving her dignity. Like a lotus blooming in the mire, needing no name to blossom.

Her secondary school years passed like an unending storm. She moved from one school to another, each bearing a different face but the same eyes—eyes filled with suspicion, judgment, and disdain.

At first, there were whispers:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6OTzqA0ZVr
“That mixed-blood girl is studying at our school?”

Then came scrutiny:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1gweHF9DN3
“Was she really assaulted? Or did she make it up for attention?”

Eventually, came punishment: her grades lowered despite correct answers; her responses dismissed because the teacher “didn’t like her attitude”; excluded from group work; beaten in places without security cameras; called “low-class mongrel” in the school corridors.

From prestigious French schools to international academies in Asia, the institutions formed a silent, subtle alliance—a network of rejection. No one said it aloud, but everyone understood: she was the hyphen no one wanted in their pure-blooded system.

Even her twin sister—once part of her very soul—turned away.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB18B36omFh
“You’ve shamed me,” her sister spat, eyes clouded with hate.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKVmbBotkdh
“I don’t want to be seen as having the same blood as you.”

But she didn’t cry.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZHZHl0jLpJ
She simply told herself:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIIldHS50kE
“As long as I can graduate… that’s enough.”

And she did graduate.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTnFfp9Jd0D
Not with fanfare, but with blood and tears.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCP2IjBms4T
An international diploma—neither glittering nor prestigious like those awarded to the “pure” and privileged—but a testament to a silent rebellion.

They called her grades a failure. But they didn’t know they were forged through rigged scores, swapped exam papers, and nights of studying in tears out of fear of being expelled.

She never failed.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjCkMSDWBjb
She was simply denied the right to succeed.

When college came—cruel in its irony—she was directly admitted into a medical school in Vietnam. But instead of accepting that safe haven, she returned to France—the very place that once stabbed her heart with prejudice.

No one understood why.

But she did.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9tUYGo8oFH
Some wounds must be faced directly to ever close.

This time, college wasn’t a place of learning, but a prison named “international cooperation.” She was allowed to study—but only for two years. Allowed to stay—but tightly surveilled in the hospital. Allowed to live—but only as a research subject, a guinea pig for Franco-Vietnamese medical education experiments.

She once wanted to die.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgU0l1SVjQK
Once stood atop the hospital roof, contemplating the fall—not from weakness, but from being too strong for too long.

Then COVID-19 struck.

The pandemic—tragic for the world—became her personal escape.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3M96Q1gfgC
She returned to Vietnam, studied Psychology online. At the same time, she enrolled in a second bachelor’s program in Linguistics at an international university in Vietnam—still connected to the same system that had once rejected her.

Online learning—her supposed salvation—turned into another prison.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrMw68abuOu
Teachers couldn’t see her face but still gave her low marks.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAMnxLtLMwe
Excellent assignments couldn’t score above 7.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG0icjfPTz5
She had no friends. No allies. Only screens, cold presentations, and grades that slapped her efforts.

They said, “Everyone passes online classes.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡptrBru8xeR
But when she graduated with two Bachelor's degrees and one Master’s, they sneered:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlv1xlPTAlx
“Bought degrees? Who even checks those?”

They didn’t know:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMLVSmfJnqF
Every presentation cut off mid-sentence due to dropped internet.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdmWZ9C1cX7
Every paper rewritten after software crashes.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFdsjPZCx2d
Every night awake until 3 AM completing demanding academic requirements—done alone, by herself.

They said she lacked hands-on experience?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbnSq04wU2d
What about the volunteer hours?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNxha5L21Uk
The sessions with autistic children?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ95hZQ4y3FD
The home visits to the depressed—the ones no one else dared approach?

They said online degrees held no value in Vietnam?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfjOvZwfCNO
Then what of her in-person Linguistics degree from a Vietnamese-certified international institution? Was that fake too?

What about the internationally accredited TESOL certificate from Australia, the Pedagogy certificate from Vietnam’s Ministry of Education, the French Psychology diploma, the 1240 SAT score, and a 7.0 IELTS?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB9cnB7SBBr
Who sold her all those?

No one had an answer.

She chose to pursue a Doctorate—not to flaunt degrees, but to prove that online education is not a crime.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu2CuposSEH
That real study, real effort, real failure—are all part of the process.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN5mZ7nPqSZ
No one graduates just because they have money.

They once called her the bottom of society.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs5SOALSJhF
But they didn’t realize: sometimes, it is from the bottom that the strongest souls are born.

Lotuses do not bloom in palaces.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlBj6RUWGm7
They bloom in mud.

Some said the lotus isn’t as beautiful as the rose.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNJ54nWEeNP
But the lotus doesn’t need to be beautiful.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0OsjBfIJsL
It only needs to live.

To live in silence. In loneliness. In obscurity.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrYRlpjtuWF
And it is precisely from obscurity that the lotus blooms—radiant, for no one, for no applause.

She is that lotus.

And if you—the one reading this—consider yourself “normal,”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGMqWQg6ciT
but do not have even a fraction of the effort, faith, or strength71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqcBepithMC
as the one you once looked down upon as “abnormal”…

…then perhaps it is you who should be ashamed.

Because sometimes,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv4jDIUpgt5
“normal” is just the mask worn by those too afraid to leave their comfort zones.

And she—she lived through everything the world hurled at her—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6WD6s98p7Z
and still walked forward with pride,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjuK2OHQiWh
like a curse that had been transformed into something sacred.

Chapter X: A Message from the Survivor71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOsZux6INmA
(Written by the protagonist to their family)

There was a time I thought of myself as a child abandoned in a storm—no hand to pull me up, no one to listen. In those days, I lay alone in my room, the wind pounding against the window like the echo of my own resentment. I was bitter. I was angry. I blamed even the sky for birthing me only to let me carry every injustice, while others—while my younger sister—were allowed to live the childhood I never had.

I once believed you didn’t love me.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9uPVr6MD0t
I asked myself:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoIkhnpGK7o
Why didn’t my parents fight for me?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF7q11RlqVA
Why didn’t they shield me the way other parents shield their children?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD6WgRgeqvQ
Why was I the one to suffer in my sister’s place?71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlBDLFdtXRG
Why was family the very thing that drove me into life’s dead ends?

Back then, my heart had no answers—only layers upon layers of despair, pressing down like boulders on a fragile soul.

But now, as I write these words, I understand.

Without those storms, perhaps I would never have become the person I am today—a person bruised and broken, yet capable of forgiveness. Flawed, but still capable of love.

I once thought I was a failure. I blamed you—often for things that weren’t truly your fault. But now I realize, even if you were wrong… it was through that very wrongness that I learned how to look within.

Because if I hadn’t had the capacity to hurt others, perhaps you wouldn’t have chosen to sacrifice me to protect them.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcKFbMD1oIp
Your silence, at times, wasn’t a lack of love—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwEglCIvdJL
It was a lack of choice.

You let go of me to preserve the last ounce of peace for the family, for the relatives, even for those who never deserved it. That wasn’t favoritism—it was helplessness.

I used to think you feared hardship, feared poverty. But now I know:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdeyhLynVDz
You feared that I would be poor, that I would suffer.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIa6i42LNb7
And above all, you feared that if you once stood up for me—and lost everything: honor, kinship, stability—then the very bond called “family” would be reduced to nothing.

Because if love becomes a reason to inflict pain, then that love is no longer love—it is poison.

And you, my sister—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoYPKwNO63y
The little girl who was once the light of my childhood—are probably someone else now.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvHzUMHCY7d
Someone with love, with friends, with joy.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKmYGUFYHeE
Someone who no longer looks back to find the sister who once sheltered you, who once bore it all alone.

I know, you have your own wounds.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtvlwdNZH7H
Maybe you think I’m selfish.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3sqxP0iNE7
Maybe you think I don’t deserve your love.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa3L5yuBInS
Maybe, in your eyes, I was never a good sister.

But dear sister…

Everything I did—I thought of you first.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtgQoLjx4W1
Whether protecting, sacrificing, or enduring—I never did it for myself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlsac5TGMEO
I only wanted you to have the childhood we both should’ve had.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSptPkOm1x5
And if there’s one thing I regret most, it’s making you grow up too fast—to bear the love I should’ve given our parents.

Yes, I’m a fool.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPTnFMLIHDx
A fool who didn’t know how to express love, who couldn’t protect herself, and even more so, couldn’t make you understand that—

I love you.

Not in sweet words, but in quiet persistence:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEhAao8tQuf
Like a sigh in the night.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbykUheR6H1
Like the silent figure standing outside your classroom when you were bullied—never stepping in, only watching—because she knew if she entered, you’d be embarrassed.

You loved our parents in my place.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHNldq1jPi9
You did what I didn’t have the courage to do.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJeOsKQZK7c
And now, if I could go back, I would never let you endure that burden alone.

You deserve a happier life than mine.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDaaa3Ke42v
And if fate demands I pay the price, then I’ll live in the shadows—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLAmQbNQHPG
So long as you can walk in the light.

I will continue to care for our parents as you once did for me.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOIA5Ekmj6U
Not as repayment.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLN1zohz2jY
But as redemption.

And even if we never become close again—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdteiT6g6gT
Even if the cracks between us never heal—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzvXblCxP3x
I hope that this apology and this thank you will not come too late.

Whether or not you forgive me, whether or not you choose to return or move forward alone, is your right.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ1io0yp41G
I ask nothing.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwxmPduQMqk
I beg for nothing.

I only hope you understand:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsYV81RXdgB
Only forgiveness and compassion can cure the poisons of hatred and selfishness.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqpticuFHn8
But if you cling to the pain like a protective charm…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFfKg0BqsD0
The one who suffers most won’t be me, won’t be our parents—it will be you.

Because no chain is crueler than the one forged by our own hearts.

Mother, father, sister—

Today, I am no longer that child crying in the dark.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyKhPXkcqc3
I am a survivor—not thanks to anyone,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcZiXCt8V6b
but because of everything you unknowingly sowed.

And from those broken pieces,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1oKvwHLLtH
I’ve rebuilt myself into someone who knows how to love—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ90euWD8rQQ
Even if that love came late.

If there is one thing I wish for, it is this:

Live truthfully with one another, while there is still time.

Because one day, when apologies and thank-yous are only flowers laid on gravestones—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMa5XDfJssx
It will all be too late.

Chapter XI: Forgiving Oneself71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmwiHvQ35n6
From the Journal of the Soul

There exists a kind of forgiveness that is the hardest of all—not the forgiveness of those who hurt us, but the forgiveness we give ourselves.

After all the years of bearing burdens, after countless nights spent writhing with questions that had no answers, the girl—who once resented her father, was angry with her mother, wounded her sister, hated life, and despaired to the point of wishing to vanish from the world—now stood face to face with the most silent enemy of all: herself.

It was she who had once spoken cruelly to herself after every failure.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw93j0gW7pX
It was she who had cursed her mixed-race body, her soul that never seemed to belong anywhere.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUcQiQTQJaa
It was she who, in moments of panic, had drowned in her own tears, accusing herself of being the source of every misfortune.

But now, standing in the quiet of midnight, in a room filled only with the sound of wind breathing and moonlight slipping through the window, she knew: it was time to embrace the child within her—the one who had been screaming for years, the one who had never been heard.

“Forgiveness is not forgetting,” she whispered to herself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVcDUjzVCPW
“It’s daring to look back and say:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk3ToaWLH6n
You were not wrong for being fragile.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZfl3Ub2g7v
You were not guilty for wanting to give up.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQt8dRiCulP
You were simply human.”

And she began to write—to herself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPBiKPU89P2
No longer the old accusations, no longer the endless indictments.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAcJMl40eQC
But a gentle murmur—like that of a sister, a mother, a friend—written to the tender self she had neglected for so long:

“Little girl, you did not deserve such pain.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg3RZX05ujf
You were incredibly brave to survive what others wouldn’t even dare to face.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQzTfUThrcF
You deserve love—not because you are perfect, but because you are you.”

Each line fell onto the page like tears finally allowed to flow without shame.

To forgive oneself is to accept that we, too, have limits.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbdIvfCnd7K
It is to release the roles of “the one who endures,” “the silent sacrificer,” “the ideal daughter,” “the invisible sister”—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbVzXDXaytm
And return simply to being someone learning how to live.

No longer must she strain to prove her worth.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjCXR12T6F8
No longer must she chase high scores, degrees, or the world’s approval to feel valuable.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKRytS4MrKa
No longer must she wait for others to forgive her before she’s allowed to forgive herself.

She realized: she does not need anyone’s acceptance to justify her existence.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh2s2IGQnpi
Her life, her presence, was already a miracle.

Yes, there will still be long nights.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrUxTJfVXtF
Yes, there will still be stumbles.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlnAJN59uFS
But from this moment on, she will no longer wage war against herself.

She will live—not to untangle every misunderstanding,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnPSQg2FNjG
Not to make others love her again,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Vk1zCEsc9
Not to reclaim what was lost—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQUMRSNQbA1
But to understand this:

Every pain that once pierced the heart did not come to destroy it—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrqLWpt4Zzy
But to open a door into it.

And in the deepest part of her soul—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrvcgAl8VGu
That was where she needed to pause, sit down, and take her own hand:

“It’s okay now… I forgive you.”

End of Chapter:

Sometimes, resurrection does not arrive with applause.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡownbHYiTEu
It comes in the moment when someone stands quietly before the mirror—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOEltuQLH45
And sees themselves through eyes no longer clouded with resentment.

If forgiving others is liberation,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡITp6mawLlx
Then forgiving oneself is the final redemption.

Chapter XII: Where Dawn Blooms Within the Heart

Dawn does not always begin with light.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTXvuV7FNyz
Sometimes, it begins with a stillness—deep and quiet—after a long night’s storm.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFamIxt338p
Just like the heart of that girl, after years of tempests, finally allowed itself... to rest.

Not rest in resignation, but in awakening.

After forgiving her family, forgiving her sister, and forgiving herself, she was no longer the same.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgGhsHS1YGL
No longer forcing herself to prove her worth.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkJEVaPC2QN
No longer exhausted from searching for a place to belong.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD3AZSmcGJV
No longer flinching at mocking words, or hiding from contemptuous eyes.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhY7reLGBTB
She was—once more—fully human.

For the first time, she accepted that she was a flower that bloomed out of season.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsQ5CowlSdS
And because of that, she was beautiful in a way no one else was.

Dawn doesn’t begin with the sound of an alarm.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUEVSlMk9pZ
It begins with a decision: no more blame, no more bitterness, no more living by scars.

From a survivor, she became a creator.

She did not build a home from the bricks others had thrown at her,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfFYYGOyq71
But from the tiny fragments of belief she gathered day by day.

She began to teach—not to flaunt knowledge,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBze5Sj4XSK
But to give her students what she had longed for: someone who truly listens.

She wrote—not as a cry for help,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj52bEv1yyd
But to spark something in others.

She loved—not to fill a void,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgxMbTUW1Fp
But to grow alongside another soul.

Someone once asked her:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJezumgfr7T
“Why do you still choose kindness, when life has treated you so unfairly?”

She simply smiled:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX3epJdGpiz
“Because if I live the way life once lived with me... then I’d no longer be myself.”

She no longer demanded justice from the world—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkMtI2aGEAq
For she understood: justice is not about equal shares,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfT1atSWioJ
But about the right to redefine happiness in your own way.

Her happiness was not in riches, fame, or recognition.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTio31C6paJ
It was in placing her hand over her heart and hearing its rhythm say:

“I am still here. I am still strong. I am still learning how to love.”

At times, the past still returned like a bitter wind—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9CQxRJCAH7
Reminding her of darker days.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0JckEK8mSY
But this time, she did not run.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa94FuQK4kd
She sat down, smiled, and told herself:

“I’ve walked through more than this. And I deserve to be here, now.”

Dawn was no longer at the horizon.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgHjqNW1BUM
It now resided in her heart—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsG0hYciDyx
The very place where darkness once dwelled.

And from that place, light began to rise.

End of Chapter:

She stood at the front of the classroom, watching a student who was being bullied.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3Vly1UgLo3
She said little, only placed a gentle hand on the child's shoulder and looked into their tearful eyes:

“You have the right to exist.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxyZEaY0HWE
You don’t need to become someone else.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8PrdvIe7OU
You only need to live as yourself.”

It was the very thing she once wished an adult would say to her.

Now, she was the one saying it... to someone else.

And that is how dawn spreads.

Chapter XIII: The Hands of the Imperfect

Some handholds don’t come from weddings.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiAtshWm96S
Nor from romantic dates.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcAoUVc2Htw
Some handholds simply exist to keep someone from falling.

And that’s what she learned as she stepped into a new chapter of her life—a chapter filled with the imperfect.

She began volunteering in a small classroom where children with intellectual disabilities were sent, treated by others as "burdens."71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg5C0FxpFfl
But to her, each child was a shimmering fracture—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtK1Zcqbsv4
a star that did not follow constellations, yet still glowed in its own light.

Some could not speak.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHSb35NoqQO
Some sat rocking in corners, crying endlessly.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSRJb3dHkpC
Some hit others, tore books, even scratched her hands raw.

But she never grew angry.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9Vu6ZyF2Rs
Because she too had once been like that—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6AIUhFKWCQ
a "stranger" to this world, labeled as "abnormal," "unruly," "in need of isolation."

For the first time in her life, she didn’t teach letters.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgVornI6RRA
She taught empathy.

She didn’t push them to excel.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhECzxfzmJL
She didn’t force them to conform.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhHAEdDHJMh
She simply held each of their hands gently and whispered:

"You’re not wrong. You just need more time."

And then, the miracles began.

A child who once couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes now smiled when she entered the room.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxk8ym2yS0w
A child who once scratched her now folded a crooked little paper crane and gave it to her.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbJRMXjoVwM
A child once rejected by his own parents whispered:

"Miss, I want to be a good person."

Each of those moments—tiny to others—was a second dawn to her.

She realized:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ013eapTNRi
The world is not saved by the great.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIivyOzRY1Y
But by clumsy hands that know how to hold one another when the sky collapses.

She began to journal her journey with these "different" children—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡna0JoTz8Uu
but each word wasn’t just a story; it was a resurrection of belief.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH704IrcTRD
The belief that no one is "useless."71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9nEQfKi7MQ
No one is born to be excluded.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDhpptiydya
Not her.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXVNXRa5zvV
Not her sister.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJSzhCckKkJ
Not the children the world had dismissed with a shake of the head.

And then, the unexpected happened.

An international educational organization read her journals.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ56akoOuDVY
They reached out—not to bestow praise,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMHfkLar50v
But to listen.

"We want you to train teachers for special education," they said.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqVbsp18HAC
"Not because of your degrees, but because you understand what education has forgotten: the heart."

She didn’t decline. But she also didn’t feel honored.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1qzuUEzyPy
Because she knew—she stood for the imperfect.

She stood before the class, not teaching theory.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpyG0ThSs1d
She simply told stories:

About a boy who once clawed her hand, now gently wiping a friend’s tears.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHweiB5Hmpg
About a girl once locked in darkness, now writing her first words:

"I want to live."

And then she looked toward the distance, where sunlight spilled down the steps, and whispered:

"We don’t need to be perfect to love and be loved.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXrfkw3Uv9B
We only need the courage to reach out—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcwbQuvhb2e
even when that hand is trembling."

End of Chapter:

In this life, perhaps everyone falls into a pit at some point.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhNJeCgXIlz
But not everyone meets someone willing to climb down, sit beside them, and say:

"I’ve been here too.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMF6ZrU4uyH
But I got out.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH4vhrJpI6I
And now, I won’t leave you behind."

She became that person—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqVPhICgU4u
Not because she was strong.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡneCbXY1HKW
But because she had known pain.

And only those who have known pain...71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl6IHrTY3Io
can truly heal.

Chapter XIV: The Seasons That Do Not Repeat

There are seasons that pass without promising to return.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgMRORkUAsA
Not because the world has changed—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPfTPz4T5gK
but because the heart has.

And she—after years of dwelling in sorrow that spun in loops,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr3juxAtpyj
after reliving memories like rewound tapes—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6UHJ9YmQ18
finally realized something:

Not every season is meant to return.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe8kYmCvAgO
Some seasons exist to come to an end.

That summer—the one where she curled up on a hospital floor,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV7qnhsJiHJ
bathed in cold white lights and the heavy rhythm of heart monitors—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQOgx4RvhXK
will never return.

Because now, instead of merely surviving,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡflRdn1trNv
she knows how to live.

That autumn—the one where she sat outside the school gates,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI9k8I4LfXC
watching classmates holding hands on their way to extra classes71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwMksZINJwQ
while her name was struck from the roster—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTXJewOPlij
will never return.

Because now, instead of waiting to be accepted by others,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa090R2ZEHi
she accepts herself.

That winter—the one when she thought of ending it all,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWbRbK9QfoD
stood by a high balcony, wondering,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCgyafHnp20
“Would anyone cry if I disappeared?”—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdCQ4bXEu9w
will not return either.

Because now, she would be the one to cry for herself71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXmJYqRJuxr
if ever again she dared to let go.

And this spring—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFXPqXQloQE
the first spring where she no longer has to pretend to be strong,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn0NlfjYkc8
no longer has to force joy—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVKNwM7i4mY
has arrived.

She has begun to love the little things.

The first rain of the season.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXMQ2ozUama
A slow, unhurried afternoon.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK1jyY9Qy9U
A book left half-read.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA1HFLbwOTJ
A spontaneous smile71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhl9rF42Qnk
when sunlight filters through a crack in the door.

She is learning to live in the present—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkWqDwmIj7t
not to forget the past,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIkslZnj4Nb
but to stop depending on it.

The past is a chapter in the book of life—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgmuQ1loprF
it needs to be read,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0ZbVhMYz9f
it deserves to be cried over—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr88BIBNnsZ
but it must be turned.

Once, while teaching, a student asked her:

"Miss, if someone has been hurt too much,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmP4CW6toLn
do they still have the right to be happy?"

She looked at the student, her eyes glistening,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqVUaWi9aB3
and simply smiled:

"Not only the right.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL76HCXrJmm
You need to be happy.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0RiOZOz94e
Because those who’ve known pain—deserve healing more than anyone else."

Each season holds its own sorrow.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYNv0a1Bx1i
Each year leaves new scars.

But like the sun that always rises,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQz1g9AhGPw
no matter how long the night—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiERx7g8YcA
hope always waits at the end of the road.

Not blind faith.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ57jvFVatSv
But faith that has once been broken,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡchavr82xTY
and now knows how to rise71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxasVqoJxnA
on the strength of its scars.

End of Chapter:

The seasons that do not return are not sorrowful ones.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPQs1oI6zvh
They are proof of growth.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ29GO0cS6dt
Of a life truly lived—of pain endured, of falls survived—and of still being here.

She knows there will be more fears.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPAcggFTuQN
There will be days of confusion.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNNpKw83i8d
There will be moments when lovers fall silent,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9ACKzRDlNH
when friends turn away,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ3oNpVFy3t
when the world feels cold.

But she also knows this:

No one can take away the seasons she’s lived through.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0GqWYtoaw1
No one can erase the light that once bloomed within her heart.

And if any season must not return—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9Ip3W4kAIr
let it drift away71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4fErcB0WEm
like a petal falling at the perfect time,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLgWnaSHrI8
like the closing note of a well-ended song,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRSxAdNkZIn
like a part of her life once marked by pain...71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjZ0LfJk2nG
so now she can cherish peace.

Chapter XV: The House Within Her Chest

People often spend their lives searching for a home to return to.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJKxK3K2YXL
A place with a warm light at the door,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOU57YNXMKX
a bowl of hot rice,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKIhVPSlrf0
and someone waiting to hear the words, “I’m home.”

She was once like that.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCfkzhvjlzR
She used to believe that a home was a physical place—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvj4dTc3mzH
an address, family inside,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwWPPxKm1FT
framed photos hanging on the wall.

But through many losses, she came to understand:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvQ4IteOkMa
Some homes are not outside.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcJbKGYZXm3
They dwell within the chest.

A true home isn’t the safest place—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCDS2aEn8Yz
but the place where you are most fully yourself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSXOvyE9ePu
Not a place without conflict—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD4v20mnWqc
but where people choose to stay after anger has passed.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe9UMT9bgMH
Not a place of perfect comfort—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgpU7iZxpyK
but where you don’t have to pretend to be strong.

She began building that home—within her.

Each brick was an old wound,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1DbNtn276b
washed clean with tears.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhV00fc4hoR
Each door was a new belief,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsmTuydPUH3
opened after years of being shut.

That house had no concrete foundation.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq0MCRvjMz4
It was built on compassion—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX9R0W3jrwi
for herself.

She learned to speak to herself each morning:

“It’s okay. You’ve done really well.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhxZntwuB9D
“If someone hurts you today, come back here—this heart-home will hold you.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMjtVKDHUlP
“You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be real.”

And strangely, the moment she stopped waiting for someone else to give her a home,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3WtaRAHyZh
she began seeing homes everywhere:

– In the glance of a stranger meeting her gaze with a smile.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSWpmEYmoA3
– In the rustling sound of a stray cat outside the door.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNcXdETsWGf
– In the quiet moment alone with a cup of tea, no longer feeling lonely.

She wrote a line in her journal:

“I once had no home.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2pHKthUX8e
But now, I am the home for my own soul.”

Then she remembered her mother.

The mother who once stood silent through her injustices,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFvaBJOXriK
now marked by wrinkles.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcGRdWoO0zb
The mother who once couldn’t protect her,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPSM3DlupE7
now looked at her with eyes full of sorrow and regret.

Once, she had wanted to scream,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSXg6Z4Hw8j
“Why didn’t you protect me?”

But now, she simply looked at her mother and said gently:

“You may not have been my home.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡso0hraLftu
But I will be your home—when you grow old.”

And so, she forgave herself—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy9OP2GNMYD
for her moments of weakness,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNgaE8WbXhA
for the times she almost let go,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWiRahim35W
for loving the wrong people and trusting the wrong places.

Because the home in her heart wasn’t a space only for the beautiful.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8DTDyQjIAw
It was a shelter for cracks and foolishness too.

End of Chapter:

Perhaps no one teaches us how to build a home inside.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoMoZip7wJG
But each of us can learn—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbOuFu1txv3
from ruin,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGs9e0sP7rC
from winters spent unwelcomed,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpXAUZKYJFb
from moldy rented rooms,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzlAkI2gRBH
from dreams cut short.

And once we learn to become a home for ourselves,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡywNHzRA359
we no longer fear being abandoned.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVhsJOQYPN7
Because we already have a place to return to—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK4UdNgXJjw
a place no one can take away.

Chapter XVI: The Missing Piece of Herself

There was a part of her—one she had never dared to name.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN3APMDPTAx
A piece that lay still, shapeless, neither light nor dark, yet it was the most vital fragment in completing the picture of who she was.

That piece—was fear.

Not the fear of darkness.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN3ru0EuqQw
Not the fear of someone leaving.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡILhN65t5Sh
But the fear of not being enough.

Not good enough.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkUKDak6xbL
Not strong enough.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBEQXqUaxFh
Not worthy enough to be loved.

She had hidden that piece in the deepest place—beneath layers of achievements, certificates, smiles, and endurance.

People looked at her and thought she was a fortress.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡshFLsySOD3
But inside was just a little girl, lost, holding the piece in her hand, not knowing where to place it.

One day, she sat alone in a small room, after a tense lesson, after a brief argument with someone she loved.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpKfFPZxwkF
Tears welled up—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMveKv3cxe4
not because someone had insulted her,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0PmFG29jbw
but because she no longer knew who she was.

She looked in the mirror—her hair had changed, her eyes were different, her voice deeper, her dreams quieter.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcIkpzqCYxF
But where was the child who once believed that if she just tried hard enough, people would love her?

That child—was still there.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvVYn63kTlA
Trembling.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpJQEoiE1BO
But still waiting to be seen.

She sat down, opened her journal, and for the first time, instead of writing about others, about lessons or accomplishments…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRo6lXVHaLw
she wrote to herself:

“You don’t need to prove anything anymore.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVx2vLdN6Kp
You have the right to be tired.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5QoPcNenPN
You have the right to be wrong.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡio0I6y8l6U
You have the right not to understand yourself—because even a heart needs time to learn how to beat peacefully.”

“If someone doesn’t love you because you’re not good enough, that’s not your fault.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlV0PSg1SZd
And if, at times, even you can’t love yourself, that’s okay too—because you’re still here. You haven’t given up.”

From those words, she began to shed her shell.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbwPdCmKIBM
Not to expose everything…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBFIqIWU5L5
But to feel lighter.

She walked in the rain without an umbrella.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfve0qH3oDs
She sent an apology to someone she had upset.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEOnC9JOCcX
She laughed when she saw a child fall and then get back up—because she realized, she had done the same.

Some days, that missing piece would stir again.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWB2Y82OYxP
The fear was still there.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9THP7nJy5R
The insecurity was still there.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeIY0BhxYJI
The feeling of being abandoned, misunderstood, rejected—still lingered.

But this time, she embraced it.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ54fimQ6hqa
She placed her hand on her heart and whispered:

“It’s okay. I still have me.”

And that piece—after years of rejection—finally fit into place.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnxJEl9iFEA
Not perfect.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYI7nuJf8jS
Not pretty.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZXoRA5elyb
But exactly where it belonged.

End of Chapter:

People aren’t incomplete because they lack good things.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvUuapSDWG7
They’re incomplete because they’ve forgotten to embrace the parts of themselves that aren’t whole.

She had once tried to piece herself together using others’ expectations.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrFUYP8atDA
But now, she chose to mend herself with truth.

The truth that she had been weak.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxbdu25cR5Y
Made mistakes.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuU4YNkXq6t
Felt envy, harbored resentment, tasted despair.

But also the truth that she—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ02f0BNLxnc
was the only one who never let go.

And if she had to live another life,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHp3HLG4ZRN
she would still choose to be herself—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ6EvAGMLYC
with every single piece.

Chapter XVII: When a Flower Chooses to Bloom on Its Own

She once believed:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKru5Azhpw1
To bloom, one needed fertile soil.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrjah4xZx7M
A gentle caretaker.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIP1cEcjnBG
Water, protection, eyes that see, and voices that affirm.

So she spent her youth searching—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEup3xK4n3Y
for a tender hand,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ50zgieycGx
for a roof wide enough,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrfC723gKwI
for a pair of eyes warm enough to make her believe she had the right… to blossom.

But life does not wait for anyone to bloom in season.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡabGttz1We9
It crushes.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI7J3783WhA
It suppresses.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBRmacpVpWM
It throws the softest seeds into the harshest gravel and stone.

And then… she realized:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEOe33lcfjR
Some flowers don’t get watered.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW0UeRK4tj4
They bloom because there is no other choice but to live.

They called her “thorny.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmsNxHtQZzb
They said she was “so strong, she became cold.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDOnxvWoUvA
They said, “She’s strange. Not like the rest.”

But they didn’t know that what they called “thorny”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡedBPfqL5CR
was the result of once being tender—until pain made her numb.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM7LWLqZvc9
That what they called “cold”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡho7fRgzOr1
was the echo of once caring too deeply—until she was left without a word.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3XKY4NkQWk
That what they called “strange”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzuAtfh4tEr
was a survival instinct when being herself was no longer safe.

And then, on a day when no one was watching, when no one hoped—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhdZ2RQ3guG
She bloomed.

No stage.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYID6xBOrNu
No spotlight.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB01bnWd6xU
No audience.

She bloomed quietly—like a small miracle.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFLjvRwdkrE
She bloomed because she had survived.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBuNL2neSrE
She bloomed because she no longer waited for permission.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd4LGzU1283
She bloomed because she had learned:

“I don’t need to look like any other flower to be beautiful.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ3x4NTdnZM
I only need to be me—and that is enough.”

From that moment on, she did everything with gratitude:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ87Z2GemnGR
– Ate a meal slowly, without rushing.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbaTiN6DMRD
– Wore a dress she loved, even if no one complimented her.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWhJzagtt4i
– Sent birthday wishes to someone who once hurt her.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8wAORtdQFk
– Forgave someone who never knew they had wounded her.

She told herself:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡotCPaROI3p
“If a flower only blooms when someone is watching, then it’s not a flower—it’s a tool.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ1vPribXu9
But I—I am life.”

Someone once asked her:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNArDnuaN7n
“How do you keep living without anyone’s support?”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGQBn5pKwy8
She smiled:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡimnFyQI755
“Because I waited for a very long time…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRKIjcupjFB
Until one day I understood: if I wait for a prince to come before I live happily,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4okKFxyo2D
I will die of old age in a tower built from my own fear.”

So instead of waiting, she lived.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyL2Hir5D86
Instead of hoping someone would come back, she moved forward.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiB8OUxTYSH
Instead of demanding justice from those who never understood the meaning of “hurt,” she learned to hold herself and say:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbMZH3ILgYZ
“It’s okay. We still have each other.”

End of Chapter:

A flower chooses to bloom—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDMbj7vDPpV
not because spring has come,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiMrRTqatts
but because it has grown brave enough to know:

Every wound that once bled is now the lifeblood feeding its roots.

She doesn’t need applause to know she’s precious.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR1hyBc7vVp
Doesn’t need to be lifted up to know she’s standing.

Because she has become someone…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmCrr6b8sYT
who does not bloom to please the world—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWIiesUEMkk
but blooms because she is worthy.

Chapter XVIII: Naming the Things That Were Lost

She once tried to forget.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWPjs73THCm
Tried to fold the past into a drawer with no key,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU7hQmh4gxW
locked it with a smile,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJn4buK0QXf
sealed it with busyness.

But some nights, the wind slipped through her fingers,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl8lRQdL5Ud
and in the sound of her own sigh,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOMZjk2AbbE
she heard something no one else could:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt0qgaH4SJn
The voice of the things that were lost.

Not loud. Not resentful.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOzjozaD0VZ
Just whispers that once were flesh and blood.

Someone once asked her:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcVsJfH9dxc
—“Why do you keep remembering sad things?”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB30CrDWuIX
She replied:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLxaMWCPPC7
—“Because some things cannot truly be released until they’ve been called by their rightful names.”

She decided to walk back down the path of memory—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYJkOaQzq1S
not to hold on,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4rwuY9TevG
but to say goodbye, like one would to a former love.

She named her first fear:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlD0ulYipIq
Abandonment.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7z2jXmJt8b
She once clung to her mother’s shirt in the schoolyard while other children gathered in groups.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqMOpLC0YlS
Startled awake at night when the house was too quiet.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEwK7bLUffB
Once wondered: If I vanished, would anyone notice?

Then she named the first teacher who shamed her—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7FpUuYfL4v
for not being “pure” enough.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP5KeD5bJA1
She remembered his eyes—colder than winter.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHdI2nZioTu
The way he judged her,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmSAPbe44D6
as if she were an unforgivable flaw.

She once resented him.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN4utMKNr2R
But today, she whispered:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVlqyTZOjY8
“Thank you, teacher. Because of you, I learned to stand—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxjC8vr7reB
even when no one stood beside me.”

She named her first love—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMQIipBO75c
the one who claimed to love her for being “different,”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNlbgKNi0WH
but left when that very difference stopped being “charming.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnozE7omNIO
She once wrote hundreds of unsent messages,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiISnr4k7o1
wondering what she had done wrong.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCD63eIsfP7
Now she knows:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ05TPnUk1ae
She was never wrong.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡarvks2JzHF
He just didn’t have a heart wide enough to hold all the layers of hers.

She named an old dream:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvAnvpvMuZc
To be seen.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkshu2b2DMk
As a child, she thought if she studied hard enough, people would love her.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8g5BIC2RAu
As she grew older, she replaced that dream with degrees, titles, and posts that racked up likes.

But in the middle of that glow,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoK4heN0Loj
she felt empty.

And she whispered to that dream:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYZXc3n0v4h
“I’ve done my best.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC1YMDWNK8K
But now, I don’t live for recognition.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZJ24P7VzQi
I live for peace.”

Finally, she named something formless—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH50uF6rzbN
A version of herself that had died.

The child who loved the color yellow, believed in fairy tales, and called her father “Superman.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUmbSjALjot
The teenage girl who wrote journals in purple ink and texted her crush just to ask, “Have you eaten yet?”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCVyzT8gSUG
The girl who once believed everyone in the world was trustworthy.

She cried when she named that former self.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡszA8v6FpmA
Not out of regret.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5XFVRagtOV
But gratitude.

Because without all those versions of herself—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtTIwXDbKgt
there would be no woman standing strong in today’s storms.

End of Chapter:

To name the things that were lost71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1AfaGT1lM9
is not to dwell in the past,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj4Pfc4dW1w
but to say a final goodbye—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkZvXBXfuiE
like the way one sends off a loved one into the beyond, without lingering guilt.

Because she now understands:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0j4YFjIK6d
What’s lost is not always a loss.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡatgDgbYkky
Sometimes, it’s the price of growth.

And when we are brave enough to name our pain,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCLO3dYUpnP
we become capable of naming joy—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXXDWMFLxYy
when it comes.

Chapter XIX: And Finally, I Chose to Stay with Myself

No one is chasing me anymore.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlFUCjmwaLb
No one is abandoning me anymore.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZr3rJBMffW
No one needs to love me just so I can feel worthy.

Because for the first time in my life, I sat down,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzXCF3focbs
looked deep into my own eyes in the mirror,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHyPnX8jQ9r
and no longer saw a seeker—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA2YV9yiLZb
but someone… who has come home.

All my life, I thought I had to belong somewhere:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSJEevZ5z1E
– A family that was whole,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBdNzEq2O9X
– A community free of judgment,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx50Pd6K7YC
– A love without conditions,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAPCnxuakEt
– A title accepted by society.

I once ran from East to West,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnYpf6iAJlI
from homeland to foreign land,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzR32mfYhDZ
from childhood to the present,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0ZIzQcigwC
from one wound to another,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDGojXdgbZI
just to find a "home"—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzZHnHl70Nz
a place where I could be myself without being rejected.

But then I realized:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡekqAQ5aFwU
Nowhere is home if I don’t stay with myself.

Staying—was the hardest thing.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQda21UbHyE
Harder than forgiving others,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDF1dih3Uxi
was forgiving myself—for being weak, for being blind, for having endured.

Harder than searching for love,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb7qASpJh96
was learning to love myself—even when no one cheered, no one applauded, no one waited.

Harder than surviving storms,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2ANpbcUk5L
was standing still—to accept that:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoQZ1OE7wIx
“I don’t need to go anywhere. I just need to not abandon myself.”

I no longer need anyone to call me “worthy.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmLgdJA0NRM
I don’t need to reach some peak to feel “enough.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaxaROa4D27
I don’t need to defeat anyone to know my life has meaning.

All I need is to wake up each morning,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOx7skwmnut
see sunlight filter through the curtains,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ988ni3R6Vr
brew a cup of warm tea,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3lugqOEMd2
and smile at the reflection in the mirror:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6I0VNu4HvU
“Today, I’m still here. And that is enough.”

I used to fear being alone—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbktMEUT8BX
so much so that I forgot the voice inside.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKdIr8lZ9Lq
But the farther I went, the more I understood:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQf9zio9YDF
Loneliness doesn’t kill.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUeCTsmsyUO
What kills slowly is not daring to live truthfully.

When I stayed with myself, I heard things I thought were lost:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzsWJunJcYn
– The voice of my heart wanting to love again, but not in haste.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjS2sbDl8fo
– The song of my soul, once broken, still humming.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡowPZvxxYNl
– The sound of silence—not empty, but deep like a spring.

And at last, I understood:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkkPtB3hZQ3
I don’t need to be saved.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt0cdjxm662
Because I was never truly lost.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVEuFXDDmvj
All I needed was someone to be with me—and that person, is me.

End of Chapter – and also, the end of the story:

Not every story needs a happy ending.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSrOGezTFR3
Some stories just need to end with the truth.

And my truth is this:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYHgNQhWVV7
I have walked through many people, many dreams, many wounds…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7Zi5LANSUH
To return—and remain—with myself.

I no longer seek the “perfect happiness.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtq2UIanqnc
I only need a quiet corner in my heart—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmmYFvyixrN
a place where I can breathe,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5togwQ1L53
where I no longer have to pretend,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgqnW1YtPrx
where I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.

And if someone asks:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTDpdk0rf9C
– “Do you still want to be loved?”

I will smile and say:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTPxGVYjmff
– “Of course. But this time, I’ll start with loving myself.”

Because…71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR8I4P4zPHm
When someone learns to stay with themselves,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlnFdU5FYHL
they can never be abandoned again.

Final Chapter: Lessons Wrapped in Silence

Not every story needs to end with applause.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8p1GwVV7Q2
Some journeys only need a quiet moment—so that the reader’s heart can echo with lessons unspoken, yet universally understood.

This is the story of a girl—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfvxVDsEIPZ
a girl born between East and West,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKHjSVqZBhp
a girl carrying wounds carved by history, society, and her own personal trials.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj6oMWXsd4J
She has journeyed through many lives, many layers of pain and love.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeMhyIG2cN0
And yet, in the end, what she leaves behind is not tears or resentment—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ83nlm7BGdQ
but light.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡft7fO9sXfZ
Small, perhaps,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ03wpFDhKf8
but enough to guide others out of darkness.

Below are truths that no school ever teaches—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY9ovYuCxVx
but she learned them with blood, tears, and unwavering faith.

1. No one is born to fit perfectly into every mold.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9r2ZJuHUI1
She was once rejected—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqRGWLJwBkG
not because she did anything wrong,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXKkJ0mhifH
but because she was different.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjUPTYgXK65
And in a world built on standards,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3QD36hU0x4
anyone who doesn’t match the majority is labeled “flawed.”

But the lesson is this:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5mG9pz7rCu
Being different is not a flaw. It is a form of courage.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxH9jGQAhgF
The courage to live authentically.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDze0aX63gC
The courage to not distort oneself for others’ approval.

2. Love is not always protection.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKaySgS9gLJ
Sometimes, people love without knowing how to love.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡatIgvU7hoB
Parents may stay silent—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGvJ5SFV6sE
not out of hatred, but out of fear greater than their capacity to bear.

Loved ones may hurt us—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwQymJv7xqo
but that doesn’t mean they haven’t hurt watching us in pain.

The lesson is:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU69YguveAc
Forgiveness is not for others. It is for your own freedom.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK1hV9G4vdn
Because holding onto resentment keeps us shackled to the past.

3. No one has the right to judge the worth of a diploma—or a person—based solely on where they come from.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡscrYJtJ56F
She was once disrespected for studying online,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDXmnSj3SVr
for being biracial,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrAOMOEguqI
for not attending a “prestigious” school.

But what she accomplished—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKZGf3DIHdi
every lesson, every exam, every sleepless night spent chasing a deadline—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK91ApVDfOr
proved this:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWhle0W0HyB
True value lies not in the paper, but in the journey taken to earn it.

A bought diploma is paper.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOnhBmCltfa
A hard-earned one is part of a lifetime.

4. No one can truly love you until you learn to love yourself.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSCs2oIcSsu
She used to chase validation,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGUz2HlryEK
used to try so hard to be accepted.

Until one day, she looked at herself and said:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPjqRpBIKPl
“I don’t have to prove anything anymore. Living is already enough.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvpe0RvkkHu
And from that moment on, she was free.

5. Sometimes, simply surviving is a kind of miracle.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqRirimlzt5
In a world that only values success through status, wealth, or fame,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD8XySZKMMP
she chose to define success as this:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4w6WJNEN0B
Still being gentle—despite everything that’s happened.

6. You don’t need to become someone else. You only need to return to yourself—and live that truth fully.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy6Il1yzxvl
She was once the abandoned child,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt5WRpvKGhX
the sister who carried all the scars,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHd0QbmH5px
the expelled student,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUFtRAu8yq0
the one scorned for being “impure.”

But in the end, she was not a “victim.”71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡURwglxtvtf
She was a survivor.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1OWtJcrRjq
And more than that, she was someone who finally understood:

No one owes us happiness.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9fS0HJRpsX
We must be the ones to write our own ending—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQL3CKGCidc
even if our story began as a tragedy.

Epilogue:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6dyz34ttSF
Her story doesn’t need to be made into a movie or printed in textbooks.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQVHFz8wc4e
It only needs to be remembered—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvv90SYH9z9
by someone who once felt lonely,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpMonubaNj7
understood—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡynFqc7t8JS
by someone who was once seen as different,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9j2hkrDviE
wept over—71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Rs4PtpimP
by someone who once struggled to survive.

And if you are holding this book,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPgJcVt79bZ
reading to the very last line,71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2SPgtjJFxr
then please hold onto the simplest truth she ever came to know:

Life is a long, challenging journey.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBwzEJjc14g
But if we remain gentle enough71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGMOe4HJxiF
to not become the very thing we once feared—

then we have already won.

APPENDIX

I. Symbolism Explained

Two Winds: A metaphor for dual identities—two cultural currents, East and West—coexisting within one soul. It also represents internal conflicts between past and present, gender and selfhood.
Strange Blood: Symbolizes genetic memory, societal prejudice, and the invisible force of “karma”—a realm where no one chooses the blood they bear but must live with its consequences.
The Twin Sister: Represents the “humane ego”—a soul that has been copied, replaced, and distorted in its desperate hunger for love.
Lotus and Rose: Contrasting images of traditional beauty (lotus—resilient, silent) and modern flamboyance (rose—popular, adored).
The Final Wind: Liberation. Acceptance of impermanence. Letting go of the victim identity to live as a free spirit.

II. The Character’s Hidden Timeline

Past Life I: A Vietnamese man—husband to a Western woman—discriminated against while living in the West.
Past Life II: The Western woman—dies of illness, her soul merges into the body of a Vietnamese boy.
Present Life: The reincarnated soul exists in a male body with a female soul—born as a child carrying “two winds,” rejected by both East and West, and becomes a victim of prejudice, abuse, and power games.
Social Rebirth: The character matures through education, experience, and the conscious decision to let go of bitterness and live for themselves.

III. Quotes Marking Transformation

"I was once your wife. Now I am you." — The Western Soul
"Blood transfused, hatred inherited." — Fate
"If love is born to hurt others, then it is poison." — A message to the family
"We live not to assimilate, but to understand. We love not to possess, but to liberate." — Final Chapter

IV. Spiritual References and Creative Inspirations

Teachings on rebirth in Buddhism and East Asian cultures
Personal experiences of gender discrimination, mixed-race identity, and exclusion in education
Literary works with similar themes:
- Giấc Mộng Phù Hoa – Nguyễn Tuân
- The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy
- The Color Purple – Alice Walker
- I See Yellow Flowers on the Green Grass – Nguyễn Nhật Ánh

V. Symbolic Spiritual Family Tree

Narrator (Main Character)

Vietnamese male body, Western female soul; divided across lifetimes

Western Woman’s Soul

“I was once your wife”

Deceased Western wife who entered Vietnamese boy’s body via blood transfusion

Vietnamese Husband (Past Life)

“You”

Vietnamese husband exiled in the West, discriminated; the narrator’s previous incarnation

Twin Sister (Symbolic)

A Nhi

A mirrored soul and embodiment of lost emotions

Vietnamese Younger Brother

Nguyên

Embodies conservative, purist views on bloodline and national honor

Vietnamese Older Sister

Linh

Manipulative, injected drugs to take over the narrator’s social identity

Parents

Not named

Represent silent, traditional generation—sacrificed child to uphold family honor

VI. Reincarnation Map (Three Lives – Three Forms)

Life 1:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhO3a2AMjqo
Vietnamese husband → Discriminated in the West → Dies quietly71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFq4gqv54NH
→ Reincarnated through blood
Life 2:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1AvqzYIrak
Western woman → Wife of Vietnamese man → Dies of illness → Blood transfused into Vietnamese boy71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvVK8GW6vRi
→ Spiritual merging
Life 3:71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlchWqEOxmp
Vietnamese boy with a Western soul → Rejected by both East and West → Faces violence, abuse, and exploitation71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzKXF9sTps6
→ Becomes the “One Who Carries Two Winds”

VII. Recommended Music & Films While Reading

Suggested Soundtracks:

“Experience” – Ludovico Einaudi71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjE6hvsdNtg
→ Soft, evocative of memory and inner life.
“Nuvole Bianche” – Ludovico Einaudi71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlArjYSZtZu
→ Ideal for chapters on loss and rebirth.
“In This Shirt” – The Irrepressibles71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOqa4OzDVcg
→ A haunting song about gender, identity, and the pain of living outside norms.
“Breathe Me” – Sia71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq5UYtWeDCJ
→ Perfect for the story’s ending—survival, loneliness, and the yearning to be understood.

Complementary Films:

Cloud Atlas (2012)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXS26iNG090
→ A film about reincarnation, multiplicity of being, and soul connections across time.
The Danish Girl (2015)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSKLacsLxpT
→ The journey to reclaim one’s true identity across gender, society, and compassion.
A Silent Voice (2016 – Anime)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFSWgngudwZ
→ A story of atonement and healing among those who once inflicted pain.
The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick)71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFEZxJmWlf1
→ A cinematic meditation on life, loss, and forgiveness—where beauty meets sorrow.

Afterword

As you close the final pages of this novella, perhaps you feel a hollow quietness—a vague sensation, like saying goodbye to someone once dear. Or maybe, you’ve glimpsed a part of yourself—or someone you once knew—in a character who first seemed distant.

The Windbearer was never written for entertainment. It is a mirror—sometimes warped, sometimes razor-sharp—reflecting back the truths we often try to forget: fractures within families, rejection by society, the dislocation within one’s own body. It is a report no one asked for. A cry no one heard. A memory no one wanted to keep but couldn’t bear to discard.

I wrote this story from the shards of my own lived experience. And yet, I also wrote it for those who have never dared to speak. For the children pushed to the margins. For those who were “not worthy enough” to be loved publicly. For the souls who chose silence because no one was willing to listen.

I don’t expect you to understand everything. I only hope you feel something—even just one line.

And if after reading this story, you find yourself a little gentler with your own heart—and a little more compassionate with others—then I know this journey of words was not in vain.

Thank you—for walking this far with me.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMveDuHrzYS
Thank you—for enduring each wound with an open heart.71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGAzy78vaV9
The story may have ended. But the journey of loving, understanding, and forgiving continues.

Author: Pham Le Quy

71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeYS1s4phEk

71Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsgwdtLQINv

ns216.73.216.252da2

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