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 WINDS17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡog7CRGbE3L
Author:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7a3at5PnbA
Pham Le Quy

"There are souls that belong nowhere –17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpS9NrHaNBB
yet still choose to live,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLfEK8UtbTq
to understand,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8HUjaynZXw
to love,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIvx7kcjiDl
and to forgive."17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUmoqWNpkvW
Vietnam, 2025

Table of Contents

Foreword (Page 7)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4J4EINLxIU
Dedication (Page 9)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaGMntKDXl8
Blurb (Page 10)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhuT9X7WwRr
Copyright Page (Page 12)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIZDeu2aQ6g
About the Author (Page 13)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKVCvRpvqpo
Editor’s Note (Page 14)

Chapters

Chapter I: The One Who Carries Two Winds (Page 16)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnfycPXPth8
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ8UhcJRiwX
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAEJYEwTfhc
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡim6Pl8FT3R
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuO7CVOOBdw
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOkuAdLwJ5G
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡev3NJuwBIg
No longer a line between enemy and kin — only the shadow of confusion remains.

Chapter VIII: Rivers of Blood – Oceans of Tears (Page 49)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV7e1qjGCzN
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0wcvyiV0eA
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdc94wUExwK
A final message — of apology and gratitude — to her parents and sister. A farewell wrapped in forgiveness.

Chapter XI: Forgiving Oneself (Page 64)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZyBdYCmHRx
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIFJkmgOrEu
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgLk0xsq8sW
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3DMGx5EVfn
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUYZjFYJtiC
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoA5Cwc7mV9
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2WrnqJ2PAh
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJm3lamrD70
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm9sDtD0rA8
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ27UpwaemMJ
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)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfYRplO0ihm
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaz251jn7qt
I wrote it because there were days when I could no longer speak.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDK7cpMpjmk
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3veVkTmtBd
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8StrTO1UnI
It is a bell that rings inside the soul, though no one strikes it.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlR1yXlDXSy
It is the confession of someone who once blamed their family, society, and even themselves.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYQcvV1hm5X
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”—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0ZOPcUwuR2
fragments of unnamed places, still breathing, still blooming in the swamps of life.

This is not a book to be rushed.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqynev4LZ8G
Read slowly. Breathe with it.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyQMunwDXYi
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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBH0DPfFmxb
who’ve been rejected, misunderstood, or torn between two opposing winds—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyCn3ujB0bs
one of the past, and one of longing.

To the hybrid souls—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXhRUmixRLg
not only by blood, but by experience.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKbH3rWRK79
Those who’ve lived on the fault line between East and West,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDeaX4s2QXR
between sacrifice and selfishness, between love and resentment.

This story is for you.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ847PwwCiB0
And for me—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQglGX1N4Qw
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdfgu5m3C0t
she (yes, she) never imagined that destiny would tear her apart.

A blood transfusion at age fourteen—meant to save her life—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡypcGwa4YSG
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoPgmnuSBEM
From that moment on, she is no longer one person.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3Bq5OSRd0H
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBTS7i5kqpx
she continues to live.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8JuFjm7VU5
Not to be accepted.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡod6EZBYWNB
But to prove: she is real.

She studies. She loves. She aches. She forgives.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzsUQvqSNRu
She does not choose revenge—she chooses existence.

No one sees the tear in her heart,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhmZSWgikB3
but all see her rise.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoEUQ12DuLV
No one hears her sob in the shadows,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxhm9k1GDoH
but all witness her smile—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVTJ5fNMhPc
like a lotus blooming in the mud,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5mLDzTb7jD
not as radiant as a rose,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbWSC9jT6Nu
but resilient enough to survive.

And if you’ve ever felt unseen,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpHe3EtjehH
if you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYBhoVVwSqR
then this story is for you.

Not to pity you—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjyi3b0A9C3
but to remind you that somewhere in this world,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzcbyHNMcj4
someone has lived as you have.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCBW0GzAZoT
And is still living.

Copyright Paper

All rights reserved.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8vYiTRFpuy
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 Winds17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCTh7hPY7lm
Author: Pham Le Quy17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGy23xZjUDH
Editor: [if applicable]17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7f30assrV5
Cover Design: [if applicable]17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiFZ8fdgZ8A
Illustration: [if applicable]17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi7vEDOs3yP
Publisher: [Self-published or Name of Publisher]17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfqAtzBdW4t
First Published: 202517Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsY8UhLKNq8
ISBN: [To be assigned if printed or registered]17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQqlxnKTFAZ
Country of Publication: Vietnam

All characters, events, and places in this novella are fictional.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUE798LIbXl
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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOrLxHbJxzg
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD1LTkGjDbD
Out of that imbalance, The One Who Carries Two Winds was conceived—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2kH2u8FjGw
as a deeply personal yet universally resonant journey of healing.

With academic backgrounds in language, psychology, and education,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx9WMFqgeCl
Quy does not write from training, but from living.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVeqEcXzowd
For this author, writing is not a career—it is survival.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8k1wEwDJMZ
Writing to breathe. Writing to remember.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkZCIoOmvqT
Writing to forgive—oneself, and those who unintentionally caused harm.

When not writing, Quy teaches, researches, and listens.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ81Ry3lxRUB
In the quietest moments, the author believes:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlMdz2yFrIc
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ38GsPjRnFD
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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFtnvXxmaMK
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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOmpInVWYNW
unbound by traditional forms.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZNEyEHMY6M
The chapters do not simply follow chronological order,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnvTh8Dpr3x
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgtmObvHtg7
but it may also become your medicine.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaRXHx3FnI6
A journey of self-healing.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeuN2hOw2Zm
A voice for the silenced soul.

The author humbly presents this novella as something to be read—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy1q6ABHBac
not with the eyes,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMPQM2Ku0yj
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.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkryVS8keB3
"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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtUGxiqHOo9
“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.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Mivn3OME0
“Are you writing from personal experience, An?” the teacher asked gently.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrK2Q0jXPOW
He bowed his head, unable to answer.

In history, during a lesson on patriarchal feudalism, he stood up and said,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6HOlQ2HuIj
“Men have always written history, but women carry the true memory of humankind.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdCJs0n9PGb
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxwQ5oe4ng9
To the mirror: he was A Nhi—the unseen twin, always present.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1xQDd9dwQG
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEGxktDyT9G
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiUYCOMSg56
To him, An was a cursed blend.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn7y7zRlmPv
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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjc1JuzBLDg
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB9ANh1QVOk
Not Nguyên.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡehY6B7UasN
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtd3y99Ebip
Not the world,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf2XmZureHW
but himself.

He forgot he had been A Nhi.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡENL3XCUQZS
Forgot he had once been a husband.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOQC4NzNG6d
Forgot the golden-haired woman who had wept in his dreams.

But what they didn’t know was this:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfjsk95mwMT
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE3Va778W4Q
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNNRfvTc7Ui
She lacked the ambiguity of a soul reborn through lifetimes.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyBxEF01O3j
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnyXSddRmcU
No color.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMQLzW4WaaH
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9FuC1KU7r3
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYzI9ciFcuk
An was no longer a victim. Nor a vengeful soul.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6MYXlvBzt5
He was a witness—of all that had been twisted, denied, and finally… remembered.

And from the ashes of conspiracy, that soul rose—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFF32Hdp7cL
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQZZoXzbkdk
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5fe1HR25fe
They didn’t know which gender box to place An in, which language, which identity.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ40qez499Nm
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ65eMEE9gu
“What kind of boy looks like a girl?”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH1tzLZTfoK
“Has that mixed-race kid caught some Western sickness?”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOSDutahpIk
“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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP8JOfdCPzP
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡArC3tGDUHT
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡExpIdV5Qkc
Some days, she looked at her hands and found them foreign, moving without conscious will.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYmDFGH1emg
Some nights, she wrote love letters in French—perfectly, without having learned. Each word, each flourish, matched the old woman from her dreams.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfcCaM77ymO
Some mornings, she stood before the mirror, applied lipstick, and smiled—not her own smile.

People said she was acting.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡehcJtMfHmO
But the truth was:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2gzpZHGFTe
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0RUvPBK7x4
“Do not assign me a label.”

The article was published. It caused a stir.

Some praised her as a living emblem of diversity.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLGN4k886IJ
Others condemned her as “a cultural aberration.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjeOALdxfj2
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8jTYDxnpHm
“Because I am everything you say I am. But also none of it.”

One day, she received a handwritten letter. No sender.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbgIlYfnhBN
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8kBdPTPiaq
Not one person who stood beside her in the crowd had ever stopped to wonder what she needed.

No one asked:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0v3fTnoLad
Are you tired? Are you in pain? Are you afraid?

She asked herself.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJnbiYFRYW6
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLuk0pjy9ef
I was once the bridge between East and West, but in truth a rope pulled from both ends.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡliIyw2QHiX
I lived under many names, many genders, many memories.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK1YE4xg0Lz
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbhVfb4hBIh
Forgive me for wanting to die.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ50rXt6uHFE
Forgive me for trying to live behind someone else’s face.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj3RHrxiPj5
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAnaa0VzdWl
Not to form a perfect figure,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsegVmBT87b
but to form a human—one who needs no name.

Chapter VII: A Conclusion or a Curse Repeated?

They say destiny is a circle.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNWaAKQzM33
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqdb0naQ7eZ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvsQXMgKXWB
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ90t0ojFMfV
“You must call me Grandpa.”

The child smiled and replied, in a Vietnamese laced with French:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuiPDSKmgZf
“But Grandpa... you’re my Grandma, aren’t you?”

That line sliced through his mind like a blade.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡup00sHOOlQ
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIt9DAGfyH1
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGbnhMCyaeH
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiAvTUjsXGZ
There are nights I dream of floating in lavender fields, not rice paddies.”

“So you’ve betrayed your people?”

“No,” she answered softly.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsRFaFWcxTK
“I’ve only accepted the parts of me I can no longer deny.”

Nguyên stepped out of her house, hollow.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzGr9V5dGuH
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaBfK7sUFuc
Children who didn’t know their parents.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3ojYBD2cGL
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7ZIyXGEdif
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuTK0PlMllr
Maybe… knowing who you are matters less than living like someone who knows how to love.”

He bowed his head.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPVC7A5a12b
For the first time, he felt small.

That night, he dreamed of standing before a mirror.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkjJKYfsMRK
But it didn’t reflect him.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaO9pSCIkb5
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFUuSGCp2wJ
Not addressed to anyone.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNsJb1xtb6Y
Just left it on the table:

**“I once wanted to make the world a replica of myself.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSs2Xy1tuIx
But I never knew who I was.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0M8LoJSuuO
I once hated the mixed.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpjl2M5SwWE
But now I understand: mixing isn’t betrayal—it’s a form of survival.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzpogFXoyde
I thought I was preserving identity.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuywOsFf6KM
But really, I was afraid—because I never truly understood my own.

Now, I seek no one to punish.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5tMGzB81Xa
I only wish to learn how to listen.”**

No one saw Nguyên again.

Some say he secluded himself in the mountains.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz4gLoiPPyG
Others claim he went to Africa to volunteer.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQrkCKN1div
Cruel tongues whispered that he went mad, struck by “cultural confusion.”

But those who truly understood said nothing.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3ynDM5x8yr
Because they knew: he wasn’t gone.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjGxXz80brH
He had simply dissolved—like all the things he once tried to fight.

And the mixed-blood girl?

She still lived.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC8qY5xb0Et
Still taught.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7AmcgduuSK
Still wandered the markets, wearing a French scarf and a nón lá.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMWycnVNmRw
Some days she wore an áo dài.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmGl82WdXg4
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAGEHaxKoTX
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn535OZO3nn
But if it is a curse,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpjGbIWYRZH
Let me be the one to repeat it—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGfWDrTI3GZ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRavbdmYOsy
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.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdFEJaESnTT
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZOeKAYeDfV
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhFZ5cguuJD
To keep Vietnam, never touch another’s blood.”

She once believed that.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyO4nSBQtsg
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD3DWaCDDkn
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsjBy7lOg7R
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE1clmP2EZ9
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?”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZue3WZCjS2
She answered quietly:

“I don’t live to be someone’s wife.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlS24KnUFxh
Nor to be anyone’s version of anything.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhzupKoHmdD
I live like the wind—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiNFC8axfua
Free, without gender, without language, without nation.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9ttWCG4FQ7
No one can keep me.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVqRipYD65U
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSCXuX7Nqli
“Then how will anyone prove who you are?”

She smiled and said only this:

“I don’t need to prove who I am.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRmjAMfpdHM
I only need to be remembered as someone who once truly felt alive.”

Years later, stories were told—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZFBeDuNn5H
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfiS1zCZsYa
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡarKm4Rlj1G
The room where Nguyên staged his violation.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSkKH2tqgSV
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrkWEhUXGy6
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLWdyHLcyQh
But if people still believe—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBjvfBDDCwW
That life is not to assimilate, but to understand.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkvAhJxbU4j
That love is not to possess, but to liberate.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpXfwuhLwga
…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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH6UgrrZLe8
But I am everyone ever torn in two by borders.”

Some built statues of her along national frontiers—but carved no name.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwA6x9wih6U
Some wrote novels about her—but called her only The Winded One.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxP6wafoELG
Some called her a curse.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsNuZFjC0yg
Some, an apocalypse.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡanabcY8vS6
Some—only whispered in the breeze—called her hope.

In a seaside village where the wind refused to choose direction,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuKRpLtPbRb
a child once drew in the sand:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgZVKefuzZc
a figure with two arms—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVJq3xjRbAb
one holding a stalk of Vietnamese rice,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZi8wVvmP7Z
the other a sprig of French lavender.

The child didn’t know who she was.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyQLONg188p
But still, they drew.

Because perhaps…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQEdaAamu3F
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1cxkaMdWyq
“That mixed-blood girl is studying at our school?”

Then came scrutiny:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjcZXiR4ZkY
“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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK9koyBkBmb
“You’ve shamed me,” her sister spat, eyes clouded with hate.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4L5OzBa2fh
“I don’t want to be seen as having the same blood as you.”

But she didn’t cry.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXjUaa9fY45
She simply told herself:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpWUaAucbiZ
“As long as I can graduate… that’s enough.”

And she did graduate.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMZsLZ0CmBh
Not with fanfare, but with blood and tears.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ44ou3UJI01
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBkOoEEuhzf
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm6toqyk5jy
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlmdKemxfy6
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgZIIhYffTL
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6VFd2mV680
Teachers couldn’t see her face but still gave her low marks.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1TeN6sbrFh
Excellent assignments couldn’t score above 7.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrzagBSrSso
She had no friends. No allies. Only screens, cold presentations, and grades that slapped her efforts.

They said, “Everyone passes online classes.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRfMjQvBfSO
But when she graduated with two Bachelor's degrees and one Master’s, they sneered:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyRwbzUjv2a
“Bought degrees? Who even checks those?”

They didn’t know:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHTc0WMh7Fr
Every presentation cut off mid-sentence due to dropped internet.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIe5W5M9KSe
Every paper rewritten after software crashes.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoEX6CG0z9D
Every night awake until 3 AM completing demanding academic requirements—done alone, by herself.

They said she lacked hands-on experience?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Ahq6NMWg3
What about the volunteer hours?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN3omS51vuP
The sessions with autistic children?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcpwzjFSkch
The home visits to the depressed—the ones no one else dared approach?

They said online degrees held no value in Vietnam?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtu2fDAT25A
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?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZxfbzAjU5o
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcsg1efAM8z
That real study, real effort, real failure—are all part of the process.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAQKoub50EB
No one graduates just because they have money.

They once called her the bottom of society.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkmEXffgQF0
But they didn’t realize: sometimes, it is from the bottom that the strongest souls are born.

Lotuses do not bloom in palaces.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ8hlnHMztM
They bloom in mud.

Some said the lotus isn’t as beautiful as the rose.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE9PsGzzW7i
But the lotus doesn’t need to be beautiful.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFtL00OvGUn
It only needs to live.

To live in silence. In loneliness. In obscurity.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ69kohv53on
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,”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwsli2KHWmV
but do not have even a fraction of the effort, faith, or strength17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp4fJB8wf2Q
as the one you once looked down upon as “abnormal”…

…then perhaps it is you who should be ashamed.

Because sometimes,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgBie0KV1K9
“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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvakGpHAOS1
and still walked forward with pride,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAixbep7G5q
like a curse that had been transformed into something sacred.

Chapter X: A Message from the Survivor17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1XmVbQrNQt
(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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8xECN33EDg
I asked myself:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXKmStgxv3q
Why didn’t my parents fight for me?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5Yskv4wmon
Why didn’t they shield me the way other parents shield their children?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPoOAAg24G0
Why was I the one to suffer in my sister’s place?17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYIoq00Rtjx
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx38noACHda
Your silence, at times, wasn’t a lack of love—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡftDXZMBtdW
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwIMEmlpf7c
You feared that I would be poor, that I would suffer.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6XFtbuEZag
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLSgl5hRTjd
The little girl who was once the light of my childhood—are probably someone else now.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt7CF1ZVXDa
Someone with love, with friends, with joy.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHybtXvtFAx
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡES7I6pem90
Maybe you think I’m selfish.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3YkfcSu3MK
Maybe you think I don’t deserve your love.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQNfAI1pCf5
Maybe, in your eyes, I was never a good sister.

But dear sister…

Everything I did—I thought of you first.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjCK4tCa6tB
Whether protecting, sacrificing, or enduring—I never did it for myself.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv5DezTOveu
I only wanted you to have the childhood we both should’ve had.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMDFdpdbVhD
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB7ihhmOhOJ
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtvbFF7EybO
Like a sigh in the night.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXvZFkQSBOC
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0p6WyI9tkO
You did what I didn’t have the courage to do.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeEcjPDKZy3
And now, if I could go back, I would never let you endure that burden alone.

You deserve a happier life than mine.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMviAbUHDM5
And if fate demands I pay the price, then I’ll live in the shadows—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZB3jEVgxSn
So long as you can walk in the light.

I will continue to care for our parents as you once did for me.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHkHVwsLImc
Not as repayment.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDSARZtst8a
But as redemption.

And even if we never become close again—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRXRegvtK6F
Even if the cracks between us never heal—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7EHnqa3GLO
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw3dhmHn6vh
I ask nothing.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDqB0YMSfSv
I beg for nothing.

I only hope you understand:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0W784wUBcQ
Only forgiveness and compassion can cure the poisons of hatred and selfishness.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf3q5CWvxdc
But if you cling to the pain like a protective charm…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUcyX35XcTL
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfwAPWjozeP
I am a survivor—not thanks to anyone,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAVr9gWRsqo
but because of everything you unknowingly sowed.

And from those broken pieces,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXfGtVEli62
I’ve rebuilt myself into someone who knows how to love—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoGjt85oKXe
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2sRWGQnnJs
It will all be too late.

Chapter XI: Forgiving Oneself17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCCVINaZuVr
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjIFwiYf98O
It was she who had cursed her mixed-race body, her soul that never seemed to belong anywhere.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUDvOcjz89k
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP4OyFfsh7s
“It’s daring to look back and say:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdRXWNXz5Nd
You were not wrong for being fragile.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfZoUMZWCWJ
You were not guilty for wanting to give up.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSy2DB8OzgD
You were simply human.”

And she began to write—to herself.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW5d3kFpnVL
No longer the old accusations, no longer the endless indictments.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZJ8Z0k9zZV
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOt9xxu63LK
You were incredibly brave to survive what others wouldn’t even dare to face.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXDXDjif6D4
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlG3shobw5h
It is to release the roles of “the one who endures,” “the silent sacrificer,” “the ideal daughter,” “the invisible sister”—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWgNUSBUfmM
And return simply to being someone learning how to live.

No longer must she strain to prove her worth.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjwv6xLN7KH
No longer must she chase high scores, degrees, or the world’s approval to feel valuable.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOTDNtdsJhO
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8ZjFdLyt80
Her life, her presence, was already a miracle.

Yes, there will still be long nights.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6kiYNAUFfE
Yes, there will still be stumbles.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡASVY5kUiDh
But from this moment on, she will no longer wage war against herself.

She will live—not to untangle every misunderstanding,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyFwo3ydk59
Not to make others love her again,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1LdzeR4HjE
Not to reclaim what was lost—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKJMqC65KpS
But to understand this:

Every pain that once pierced the heart did not come to destroy it—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQMdAjpOz41
But to open a door into it.

And in the deepest part of her soul—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡphcuJz0Wy9
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKIvgOAstrM
It comes in the moment when someone stands quietly before the mirror—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHZK6dMFcCd
And sees themselves through eyes no longer clouded with resentment.

If forgiving others is liberation,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjdEGMImjNt
Then forgiving oneself is the final redemption.

Chapter XII: Where Dawn Blooms Within the Heart

Dawn does not always begin with light.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs7kArTHrdt
Sometimes, it begins with a stillness—deep and quiet—after a long night’s storm.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5KGMGzcSqu
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuoF3H5S526
No longer forcing herself to prove her worth.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU88chDnwPv
No longer exhausted from searching for a place to belong.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAj5BsItOjD
No longer flinching at mocking words, or hiding from contemptuous eyes.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyaXwMOx4Ok
She was—once more—fully human.

For the first time, she accepted that she was a flower that bloomed out of season.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA0HDnWvtg8
And because of that, she was beautiful in a way no one else was.

Dawn doesn’t begin with the sound of an alarm.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeYxgfp25qb
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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBPbsf2UaiP
But from the tiny fragments of belief she gathered day by day.

She began to teach—not to flaunt knowledge,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZZwdO339EX
But to give her students what she had longed for: someone who truly listens.

She wrote—not as a cry for help,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMkLiGp0lCO
But to spark something in others.

She loved—not to fill a void,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjxzFFOjXFy
But to grow alongside another soul.

Someone once asked her:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn62m6bbiIP
“Why do you still choose kindness, when life has treated you so unfairly?”

She simply smiled:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqiQZmxWXzb
“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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwKLk3gjbQX
For she understood: justice is not about equal shares,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeU2QoKBcVc
But about the right to redefine happiness in your own way.

Her happiness was not in riches, fame, or recognition.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiNkSKK5sim
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXZXqZNDCW7
Reminding her of darker days.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8koQtQzgZx
But this time, she did not run.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeQQojMkfyN
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2xUtV0mLbS
It now resided in her heart—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ78GEYk9cSQ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbsLKV3poj7
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf8Ehz4UCIw
You don’t need to become someone else.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbRR8fsc7lJ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwC2ZIX6vZK
Nor from romantic dates.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPDR0XBrCCE
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."17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjXXCYvPXKu
But to her, each child was a shimmering fracture—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMeHkHxyEG3
a star that did not follow constellations, yet still glowed in its own light.

Some could not speak.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmOVz3vUu8G
Some sat rocking in corners, crying endlessly.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbxq0m4HxE6
Some hit others, tore books, even scratched her hands raw.

But she never grew angry.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTNKk2f5DyY
Because she too had once been like that—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTnVD5BlNeZ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuvIxpbwFrd
She taught empathy.

She didn’t push them to excel.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7P4xWIqzgW
She didn’t force them to conform.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPOVgcQrPlZ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwgZUXu1rhW
A child who once scratched her now folded a crooked little paper crane and gave it to her.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnmGv5QVQm3
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:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSI441Cp8xN
The world is not saved by the great.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOYaSDfXpdb
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6hHilybpYb
but each word wasn’t just a story; it was a resurrection of belief.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcb3kewclyO
The belief that no one is "useless."17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi0zakbqpd4
No one is born to be excluded.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKaraVf0mit
Not her.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgCCQ6rL7aR
Not her sister.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXNf1yZwzC4
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcc5orKWKZm
They reached out—not to bestow praise,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4aJ6Idaiz0
But to listen.

"We want you to train teachers for special education," they said.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡduFH5KZE5p
"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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡah9Fzsddcx
Because she knew—she stood for the imperfect.

She stood before the class, not teaching theory.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJZHwk4aiiP
She simply told stories:

About a boy who once clawed her hand, now gently wiping a friend’s tears.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeMvoJEjw4u
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡga1fNMWsbR
We only need the courage to reach out—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqkyAlwonzP
even when that hand is trembling."

End of Chapter:

In this life, perhaps everyone falls into a pit at some point.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMP5465wzRE
But not everyone meets someone willing to climb down, sit beside them, and say:

"I’ve been here too.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGI38mwqkiD
But I got out.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8ZtczDDpRJ
And now, I won’t leave you behind."

She became that person—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjLlP9BOy9c
Not because she was strong.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzhuswoEWcu
But because she had known pain.

And only those who have known pain...17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNpR7AZs6HQ
can truly heal.

Chapter XIV: The Seasons That Do Not Repeat

There are seasons that pass without promising to return.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA5RQH2SZlG
Not because the world has changed—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJTKqNZQXom
but because the heart has.

And she—after years of dwelling in sorrow that spun in loops,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsSYK3ImSDv
after reliving memories like rewound tapes—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAP5CcbJ00n
finally realized something:

Not every season is meant to return.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf9SFukBaqF
Some seasons exist to come to an end.

That summer—the one where she curled up on a hospital floor,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoV3fV6Qp0T
bathed in cold white lights and the heavy rhythm of heart monitors—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdvlb6eujiE
will never return.

Because now, instead of merely surviving,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp9joxUDZoq
she knows how to live.

That autumn—the one where she sat outside the school gates,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡluQ14ToXzy
watching classmates holding hands on their way to extra classes17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc18cNs8BUD
while her name was struck from the roster—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSLerR7UDUC
will never return.

Because now, instead of waiting to be accepted by others,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqPIP2NrNQt
she accepts herself.

That winter—the one when she thought of ending it all,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvO73yOxYGM
stood by a high balcony, wondering,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkiFHdqCZQJ
“Would anyone cry if I disappeared?”—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbYowY8JMTE
will not return either.

Because now, she would be the one to cry for herself17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfrUEK0rlPB
if ever again she dared to let go.

And this spring—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpUT2ZaTwEn
the first spring where she no longer has to pretend to be strong,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP6xuwaOMmy
no longer has to force joy—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5HX21QGt0X
has arrived.

She has begun to love the little things.

The first rain of the season.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWIBacM8QyE
A slow, unhurried afternoon.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcwQk6ptQpL
A book left half-read.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCTtrlJgT6Y
A spontaneous smile17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg971Fms1UB
when sunlight filters through a crack in the door.

She is learning to live in the present—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡem793DuoPS
not to forget the past,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH4MUNyOn0q
but to stop depending on it.

The past is a chapter in the book of life—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjED5ZXpTa8
it needs to be read,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw7H41b1zcr
it deserves to be cried over—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvDetyOz5TJ
but it must be turned.

Once, while teaching, a student asked her:

"Miss, if someone has been hurt too much,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNjgH6qgn0T
do they still have the right to be happy?"

She looked at the student, her eyes glistening,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1BxXHoPG8t
and simply smiled:

"Not only the right.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMxYWLMLmux
You need to be happy.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8hVmfby4lY
Because those who’ve known pain—deserve healing more than anyone else."

Each season holds its own sorrow.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtJYVO8vxFu
Each year leaves new scars.

But like the sun that always rises,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5YcBgDZTf8
no matter how long the night—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYITYZhVdeR
hope always waits at the end of the road.

Not blind faith.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqeZ6moEoyz
But faith that has once been broken,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8akbEhvh4q
and now knows how to rise17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBmFnjCvsI0
on the strength of its scars.

End of Chapter:

The seasons that do not return are not sorrowful ones.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUfmEsJdhKn
They are proof of growth.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCRL3BIXsKL
Of a life truly lived—of pain endured, of falls survived—and of still being here.

She knows there will be more fears.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR6GNJ0xls5
There will be days of confusion.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡytKdj3k3fI
There will be moments when lovers fall silent,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7aC1zKmjk6
when friends turn away,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaspTLmLg29
when the world feels cold.

But she also knows this:

No one can take away the seasons she’s lived through.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNgeXAZ4hQl
No one can erase the light that once bloomed within her heart.

And if any season must not return—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9uE5dq82Nw
let it drift away17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ4RkWPdLQ7
like a petal falling at the perfect time,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNzgkf0qFHy
like the closing note of a well-ended song,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ77tMNi75LE
like a part of her life once marked by pain...17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1oO3P3sA4x
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtEblB6Pkqy
A place with a warm light at the door,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Vj6fq6Yan
a bowl of hot rice,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt7JVzEQ8Aq
and someone waiting to hear the words, “I’m home.”

She was once like that.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXXkHmQkOtK
She used to believe that a home was a physical place—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrLoUqY8jqR
an address, family inside,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqOM8ZLj7Ho
framed photos hanging on the wall.

But through many losses, she came to understand:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTKx2i7nUd2
Some homes are not outside.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9b1pSMGWCI
They dwell within the chest.

A true home isn’t the safest place—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkTfDJt9v3E
but the place where you are most fully yourself.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCNdZB83sKs
Not a place without conflict—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6rA6in6atB
but where people choose to stay after anger has passed.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdvfF6GKYrM
Not a place of perfect comfort—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd6udWhkqR8
but where you don’t have to pretend to be strong.

She began building that home—within her.

Each brick was an old wound,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVtq81S9YL5
washed clean with tears.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxGGXDwZuir
Each door was a new belief,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ61EYs3SkIA
opened after years of being shut.

That house had no concrete foundation.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHzptzqQ9zj
It was built on compassion—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuOisopyc4f
for herself.

She learned to speak to herself each morning:

“It’s okay. You’ve done really well.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ23RD18Ll0R
“If someone hurts you today, come back here—this heart-home will hold you.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbaPkqGU3yz
“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,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCOoOi6nWZE
she began seeing homes everywhere:

– In the glance of a stranger meeting her gaze with a smile.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt2fRo0QZg7
– In the rustling sound of a stray cat outside the door.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHs9zEHeuRp
– 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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTnZNpwILJU
But now, I am the home for my own soul.”

Then she remembered her mother.

The mother who once stood silent through her injustices,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFqiWSvFNCn
now marked by wrinkles.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡISBm0rsKlh
The mother who once couldn’t protect her,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3a18ZedUiq
now looked at her with eyes full of sorrow and regret.

Once, she had wanted to scream,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGGkUZ5u07B
“Why didn’t you protect me?”

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

“You may not have been my home.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu2TaQOcg4n
But I will be your home—when you grow old.”

And so, she forgave herself—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx3mP2FuY1B
for her moments of weakness,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWD7RjyZPN7
for the times she almost let go,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiKWDK9SUCU
for loving the wrong people and trusting the wrong places.

Because the home in her heart wasn’t a space only for the beautiful.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8hWXYsGLTx
It was a shelter for cracks and foolishness too.

End of Chapter:

Perhaps no one teaches us how to build a home inside.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ52sxPa1iK6
But each of us can learn—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3rmJWlpn3q
from ruin,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt6w2pcgLa7
from winters spent unwelcomed,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxrizOSIgUg
from moldy rented rooms,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvwe7aimPjF
from dreams cut short.

And once we learn to become a home for ourselves,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwtQTeNEBRv
we no longer fear being abandoned.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpUnXcRoWNq
Because we already have a place to return to—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRP2eXsNrVe
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5ABNNxaa5h
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQILDKHLbJY
Not the fear of someone leaving.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfHgRd2Sb9B
But the fear of not being enough.

Not good enough.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKsH7B9TrpM
Not strong enough.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWd0TG0V3gm
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡasTPZtTmYS
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAKsWdDlF8r
Tears welled up—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqP7p6sa4CI
not because someone had insulted her,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmcmIjqL6KX
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIwrNqy0m6H
But where was the child who once believed that if she just tried hard enough, people would love her?

That child—was still there.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvuXuVYTgA7
Trembling.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡggrd487Cy3
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…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6JocJmmygi
she wrote to herself:

“You don’t need to prove anything anymore.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9KaAzxKzyK
You have the right to be tired.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuUBr7570PT
You have the right to be wrong.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVJ4AT9xVBs
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQtf3XEsztJ
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp71cdRV2YB
Not to expose everything…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡITUMr8yJYw
But to feel lighter.

She walked in the rain without an umbrella.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhstWOpnclS
She sent an apology to someone she had upset.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSHNovjZeAy
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx5x9j47Vvv
The fear was still there.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrTu7nn81jj
The insecurity was still there.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1Aa6F8YI08
The feeling of being abandoned, misunderstood, rejected—still lingered.

But this time, she embraced it.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqHf2Qlgspa
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnfNafzB52J
Not perfect.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZWeakdABkf
Not pretty.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNHtNpseLFe
But exactly where it belonged.

End of Chapter:

People aren’t incomplete because they lack good things.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8IjL6oWRLa
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcM2kRtbNdb
But now, she chose to mend herself with truth.

The truth that she had been weak.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1o2B0XJG6G
Made mistakes.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOIhZrl0aud
Felt envy, harbored resentment, tasted despair.

But also the truth that she—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcqmCXJtjr1
was the only one who never let go.

And if she had to live another life,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeOuZixR1F0
she would still choose to be herself—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ5sKcrTINL
with every single piece.

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

She once believed:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbl8CJaFI5t
To bloom, one needed fertile soil.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8zGnl9d4cg
A gentle caretaker.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOF2bxL0NtV
Water, protection, eyes that see, and voices that affirm.

So she spent her youth searching—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF3a7Rl0Kjq
for a tender hand,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSg0LodoY8g
for a roof wide enough,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzxxVaJAihW
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwrVeCDb1Um
It crushes.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI4EZghhbSj
It suppresses.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr5K5cE3QNr
It throws the softest seeds into the harshest gravel and stone.

And then… she realized:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXi0SilhJ44
Some flowers don’t get watered.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAUaNNrMTzC
They bloom because there is no other choice but to live.

They called her “thorny.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn9oSjCn4tr
They said she was “so strong, she became cold.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpBIyEARyPN
They said, “She’s strange. Not like the rest.”

But they didn’t know that what they called “thorny”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU71QaBqpsx
was the result of once being tender—until pain made her numb.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlwzmyFaCr8
That what they called “cold”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPyzoBYG67G
was the echo of once caring too deeply—until she was left without a word.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWIavrdGrZY
That what they called “strange”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgyISSn5YYF
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdZBL6DPRYV
She bloomed.

No stage.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0atzCugq15
No spotlight.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEHZMy2dje8
No audience.

She bloomed quietly—like a small miracle.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk0MMqpUVP0
She bloomed because she had survived.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfCwMff4Ksw
She bloomed because she no longer waited for permission.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhK12QaXu2z
She bloomed because she had learned:

“I don’t need to look like any other flower to be beautiful.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ28H9NGjyS1
I only need to be me—and that is enough.”

From that moment on, she did everything with gratitude:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeFuAYDRjfE
– Ate a meal slowly, without rushing.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkN2pkucAAi
– Wore a dress she loved, even if no one complimented her.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡImTcunFznL
– Sent birthday wishes to someone who once hurt her.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAI3wGMpaDy
– Forgave someone who never knew they had wounded her.

She told herself:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ5VXBekVMy
“If a flower only blooms when someone is watching, then it’s not a flower—it’s a tool.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUzAq1jBL9E
But I—I am life.”

Someone once asked her:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ15r3JFEM3G
“How do you keep living without anyone’s support?”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsReJKHYfuS
She smiled:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp7tLwBh4V7
“Because I waited for a very long time…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt5Z8hW2ERS
Until one day I understood: if I wait for a prince to come before I live happily,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYo3snyKeAS
I will die of old age in a tower built from my own fear.”

So instead of waiting, she lived.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1tZY9G4V8b
Instead of hoping someone would come back, she moved forward.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDLBx0MHLTT
Instead of demanding justice from those who never understood the meaning of “hurt,” she learned to hold herself and say:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoJEXIdXsPh
“It’s okay. We still have each other.”

End of Chapter:

A flower chooses to bloom—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaxthJDxzeM
not because spring has come,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvJUj6H9XNP
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgs7H6UJezk
Doesn’t need to be lifted up to know she’s standing.

Because she has become someone…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ95jjizy7xi
who does not bloom to please the world—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjusOtd949z
but blooms because she is worthy.

Chapter XVIII: Naming the Things That Were Lost

She once tried to forget.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ33FHyKXRFP
Tried to fold the past into a drawer with no key,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡltsV45RPD9
locked it with a smile,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqs7uRAC7jE
sealed it with busyness.

But some nights, the wind slipped through her fingers,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb1ywO6kOCV
and in the sound of her own sigh,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSHrgbkjIDO
she heard something no one else could:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡigLzCqsT6S
The voice of the things that were lost.

Not loud. Not resentful.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡULtUcLWBYK
Just whispers that once were flesh and blood.

Someone once asked her:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ30cbE2Ryk
—“Why do you keep remembering sad things?”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ86hLCo8Paa
She replied:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHrLVcVt8Ju
—“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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcuq4p3IPEk
not to hold on,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1JFfhrVYnz
but to say goodbye, like one would to a former love.

She named her first fear:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5BER8KK99K
Abandonment.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ85zAxFWDkI
She once clung to her mother’s shirt in the schoolyard while other children gathered in groups.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEEPEErknxm
Startled awake at night when the house was too quiet.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGzmrDY74t0
Once wondered: If I vanished, would anyone notice?

Then she named the first teacher who shamed her—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSYTpnXQwtS
for not being “pure” enough.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8haD0YFgXm
She remembered his eyes—colder than winter.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuyTKpI6xn4
The way he judged her,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPK2VkQ6Ib0
as if she were an unforgivable flaw.

She once resented him.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlxfhX9zZTV
But today, she whispered:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKzFyvkZ0jJ
“Thank you, teacher. Because of you, I learned to stand—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQmpoFXD7IT
even when no one stood beside me.”

She named her first love—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPypcPHs0xZ
the one who claimed to love her for being “different,”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqAXkcm6mgU
but left when that very difference stopped being “charming.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQinxflwLaP
She once wrote hundreds of unsent messages,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcXGClVcWhB
wondering what she had done wrong.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTcEiFu1y9N
Now she knows:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjYzlG174iv
She was never wrong.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiIpZjrmGmk
He just didn’t have a heart wide enough to hold all the layers of hers.

She named an old dream:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn5iIbYmMpt
To be seen.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpKZk3wWRjx
As a child, she thought if she studied hard enough, people would love her.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡflJ0axc8ej
As she grew older, she replaced that dream with degrees, titles, and posts that racked up likes.

But in the middle of that glow,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG9ZPS4GUvZ
she felt empty.

And she whispered to that dream:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhp23ybyBGW
“I’ve done my best.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyTAvkR50vU
But now, I don’t live for recognition.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIEj4wyF5Ne
I live for peace.”

Finally, she named something formless—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡshFIVOpYfG
A version of herself that had died.

The child who loved the color yellow, believed in fairy tales, and called her father “Superman.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGq5CtNmVEV
The teenage girl who wrote journals in purple ink and texted her crush just to ask, “Have you eaten yet?”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCq9Bi6JchP
The girl who once believed everyone in the world was trustworthy.

She cried when she named that former self.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR6XkGl06bg
Not out of regret.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEkf1c1fy5F
But gratitude.

Because without all those versions of herself—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs40D1ffVYk
there would be no woman standing strong in today’s storms.

End of Chapter:

To name the things that were lost17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmLxPh73FDz
is not to dwell in the past,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg4WVHYz2nQ
but to say a final goodbye—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBgVxhstF3H
like the way one sends off a loved one into the beyond, without lingering guilt.

Because she now understands:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa67wld6YG4
What’s lost is not always a loss.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWG1nkfkKMc
Sometimes, it’s the price of growth.

And when we are brave enough to name our pain,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfO3wfiMgAN
we become capable of naming joy—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs2SjLGtF8H
when it comes.

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

No one is chasing me anymore.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJrvJXqYu15
No one is abandoning me anymore.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDJlmQ4mS5N
No one needs to love me just so I can feel worthy.

Because for the first time in my life, I sat down,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx4IJoXj0Ba
looked deep into my own eyes in the mirror,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKnIhkiOnBr
and no longer saw a seeker—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuZy9a26yz7
but someone… who has come home.

All my life, I thought I had to belong somewhere:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwlKFROWbu1
– A family that was whole,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7aj3X7IoBb
– A community free of judgment,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ7B0jRKZDU
– A love without conditions,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7arqfWRx2t
– A title accepted by society.

I once ran from East to West,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDzu1BB78Bh
from homeland to foreign land,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX0BhDPyYD2
from childhood to the present,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvGGSIwj6rj
from one wound to another,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5owR7jO5d0
just to find a "home"—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEc7BHCWnqW
a place where I could be myself without being rejected.

But then I realized:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzLBmlW8Jmd
Nowhere is home if I don’t stay with myself.

Staying—was the hardest thing.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQGhz4g0zZI
Harder than forgiving others,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrtIEmfq7Hp
was forgiving myself—for being weak, for being blind, for having endured.

Harder than searching for love,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG8GhYzgdZl
was learning to love myself—even when no one cheered, no one applauded, no one waited.

Harder than surviving storms,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8XrVvht1PN
was standing still—to accept that:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjcB1vf2fWr
“I don’t need to go anywhere. I just need to not abandon myself.”

I no longer need anyone to call me “worthy.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYCMUdADvsP
I don’t need to reach some peak to feel “enough.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzoAxE1AQ94
I don’t need to defeat anyone to know my life has meaning.

All I need is to wake up each morning,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGNfuzwZqsd
see sunlight filter through the curtains,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxPSHXsu7C2
brew a cup of warm tea,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTozaXfjM5P
and smile at the reflection in the mirror:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbJHsHB0R99
“Today, I’m still here. And that is enough.”

I used to fear being alone—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh3t5fD87cq
so much so that I forgot the voice inside.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡidzNNdYKFK
But the farther I went, the more I understood:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLQUdCWpFT6
Loneliness doesn’t kill.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLotisEusX0
What kills slowly is not daring to live truthfully.

When I stayed with myself, I heard things I thought were lost:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡADLrqaZGU9
– The voice of my heart wanting to love again, but not in haste.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPQJUDPgkXk
– The song of my soul, once broken, still humming.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMS5IMiy1WV
– The sound of silence—not empty, but deep like a spring.

And at last, I understood:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡshjFXexA18
I don’t need to be saved.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNWabEYYKYv
Because I was never truly lost.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf9N6PWnU74
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpnV40pMrGs
Some stories just need to end with the truth.

And my truth is this:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxAK6eQtW9u
I have walked through many people, many dreams, many wounds…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1GEyMLzgdh
To return—and remain—with myself.

I no longer seek the “perfect happiness.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgVOiNa10Fz
I only need a quiet corner in my heart—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr9OievJ6Pj
a place where I can breathe,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ4H6qEvVyZ
where I no longer have to pretend,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOvhSoiyLBn
where I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.

And if someone asks:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbhxrSB7ArG
– “Do you still want to be loved?”

I will smile and say:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3VwqiYEsAb
– “Of course. But this time, I’ll start with loving myself.”

Because…17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIlYAphUHo6
When someone learns to stay with themselves,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgKYfs0236A
they can never be abandoned again.

Final Chapter: Lessons Wrapped in Silence

Not every story needs to end with applause.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvPNzrQ7SFZ
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—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡorKx9bYsAP
a girl born between East and West,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzF0Q4JoWYB
a girl carrying wounds carved by history, society, and her own personal trials.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjNidZNWC5B
She has journeyed through many lives, many layers of pain and love.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPeE9naU2XG
And yet, in the end, what she leaves behind is not tears or resentment—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0GvWiZp12e
but light.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡySIMr5NUTH
Small, perhaps,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdSSOUN0lT6
but enough to guide others out of darkness.

Below are truths that no school ever teaches—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFz0AJ13hxQ
but she learned them with blood, tears, and unwavering faith.

1. No one is born to fit perfectly into every mold.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAOGRu0wPIH
She was once rejected—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2qVD4YQA6e
not because she did anything wrong,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡePVBeOnv89
but because she was different.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIR9oga7pSz
And in a world built on standards,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbogNYAYqg7
anyone who doesn’t match the majority is labeled “flawed.”

But the lesson is this:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuoMQ7F6sxm
Being different is not a flaw. It is a form of courage.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHKEXyoUc9I
The courage to live authentically.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtDhvrqrOo6
The courage to not distort oneself for others’ approval.

2. Love is not always protection.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPIbRkueskH
Sometimes, people love without knowing how to love.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrLrN9YEU5w
Parents may stay silent—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡduCsD1jIyZ
not out of hatred, but out of fear greater than their capacity to bear.

Loved ones may hurt us—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdU45steYf5
but that doesn’t mean they haven’t hurt watching us in pain.

The lesson is:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcB68pG2qMe
Forgiveness is not for others. It is for your own freedom.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1EvhM2JLYh
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpinKkn2KcW
She was once disrespected for studying online,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiBzPqKYk4T
for being biracial,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf9OyqnzrgF
for not attending a “prestigious” school.

But what she accomplished—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTWsLYhE2EQ
every lesson, every exam, every sleepless night spent chasing a deadline—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmeYtXyI6TE
proved this:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡatFxQRisRH
True value lies not in the paper, but in the journey taken to earn it.

A bought diploma is paper.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvD5ItsYh6D
A hard-earned one is part of a lifetime.

4. No one can truly love you until you learn to love yourself.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlHLT7UNCiz
She used to chase validation,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLbGEstkLd2
used to try so hard to be accepted.

Until one day, she looked at herself and said:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrTXSEU3Gr0
“I don’t have to prove anything anymore. Living is already enough.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH3yXz1zbwd
And from that moment on, she was free.

5. Sometimes, simply surviving is a kind of miracle.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2nEn3zTDnc
In a world that only values success through status, wealth, or fame,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLBbWuBROxL
she chose to define success as this:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDdVMsygGy8
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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ70rM4j4yT
She was once the abandoned child,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡctZsTb89yV
the sister who carried all the scars,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5SZ8bhWnX2
the expelled student,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkdwMfYuHgn
the one scorned for being “impure.”

But in the end, she was not a “victim.”17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqTxkk1UPwA
She was a survivor.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE0wnQtK4hG
And more than that, she was someone who finally understood:

No one owes us happiness.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSb0iQS3YT3
We must be the ones to write our own ending—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTjEzHpEBDD
even if our story began as a tragedy.

Epilogue:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU2n4NzIIKK
Her story doesn’t need to be made into a movie or printed in textbooks.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwRjNIStHc6
It only needs to be remembered—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyRnSHmTBfx
by someone who once felt lonely,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8N6xP03Nvl
understood—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6VczJJ1SHb
by someone who was once seen as different,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHuGUu5URlP
wept over—17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpWvl80Hd94
by someone who once struggled to survive.

And if you are holding this book,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQdiNaL7L5s
reading to the very last line,17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwGpOv32TeG
then please hold onto the simplest truth she ever came to know:

Life is a long, challenging journey.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUPzhopaBwB
But if we remain gentle enough17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡriEYOcVfq3
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 1:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGUiNjzSGjz
Vietnamese husband → Discriminated in the West → Dies quietly17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ92E8Mp4oYI
→ Reincarnated through blood
Life 2:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZvQihm6Fyf
Western woman → Wife of Vietnamese man → Dies of illness → Blood transfused into Vietnamese boy17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ31yoPGqTWz
→ Spiritual merging
Life 3:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTTwVh2r7Lr
Vietnamese boy with a Western soul → Rejected by both East and West → Faces violence, abuse, and exploitation17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR2EGJ2Kv3F
→ Becomes the “One Who Carries Two Winds”

VII. Recommended Music & Films While Reading

Suggested Soundtracks:

“Experience” – Ludovico Einaudi17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPrFiaDwlpc
→ Soft, evocative of memory and inner life.
“Nuvole Bianche” – Ludovico Einaudi17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1jzjf9MX07
→ Ideal for chapters on loss and rebirth.
“In This Shirt” – The Irrepressibles17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ47u6HcDoIF
→ A haunting song about gender, identity, and the pain of living outside norms.
“Breathe Me” – Sia17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2iZUfTqOXg
→ Perfect for the story’s ending—survival, loneliness, and the yearning to be understood.

Complementary Films:

Cloud Atlas (2012)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvUne8wRY38
→ A film about reincarnation, multiplicity of being, and soul connections across time.
The Danish Girl (2015)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJVBdeo0M1k
→ The journey to reclaim one’s true identity across gender, society, and compassion.
A Silent Voice (2016 – Anime)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHIVZn4wxqt
→ A story of atonement and healing among those who once inflicted pain.
The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick)17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbPg9pKr8as
→ 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.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvvyO7NdrFU
Thank you—for enduring each wound with an open heart.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdQ2yunhPGz
The story may have ended. But the journey of loving, understanding, and forgiving continues.

Author: Pham Le Quy

17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡewBQlijPbx

17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgybbO3bwgX

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