THE ONE WHO CARRIES TWO WINDS

THE ONE WHO CARRIES TWO WINDS

Author:

Pham Le Quy

"There are souls that belong nowhere –

yet still choose to live,

to understand,

to love,

and to forgive."

Vietnam, 2025

FOREWORD

For those souls once pushed to the margins of life.

I didn't write this novella to seek pity. Nor to earn praise.

I wrote it because there were days when I could no longer speak.

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.

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.

It is a bell that rings inside the soul, though no one strikes it.

It is the confession of someone who once blamed their family, society, and even themselves.

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"—

fragments of unnamed places, still breathing, still blooming in the swamps of life.

This is not a book to be rushed.

Read slowly. Breathe with it.

For some chapters will not be understood with the mind—but only felt by the heart.

Author: Pham Le Quy

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."

"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.

"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."

"Are you writing from personal experience, An?" the teacher asked gently.

He bowed his head, unable to answer.

In history, during a lesson on patriarchal feudalism, he stood up and said,

"Men have always written history, but women carry the true memory of humankind."

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.

To the mirror: he was A Nhi—the unseen twin, always present.

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.

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.

To him, An was a cursed blend.

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,

"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.

Not Nguyên.

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—

Not the world,

but himself.

He forgot he had been A Nhi.

Forgot he had once been a husband.

Forgot the golden-haired woman who had wept in his dreams.

But what they didn't know was this:

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.

"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.

She lacked the ambiguity of a soul reborn through lifetimes.

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.

No color.

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.

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.

An was no longer a victim. Nor a vengeful soul.

He was a witness—of all that had been twisted, denied, and finally… remembered.

And from the ashes of conspiracy, that soul rose—

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:

"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.

They didn't know which gender box to place An in, which language, which identity.

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:

"What kind of boy looks like a girl?"

"Has that mixed-race kid caught some Western sickness?"

"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:

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:

"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.

Some days, she looked at her hands and found them foreign, moving without conscious will.

Some nights, she wrote love letters in French—perfectly, without having learned. Each word, each flourish, matched the old woman from her dreams.

Some mornings, she stood before the mirror, applied lipstick, and smiled—not her own smile.

People said she was acting.

But the truth was:

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:

"Do not assign me a label."

The article was published. It caused a stir.

Some praised her as a living emblem of diversity.

Others condemned her as "a cultural aberration."

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.

"Because I am everything you say I am. But also none of it."

One day, she received a handwritten letter. No sender.

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.

Not one person who stood beside her in the crowd had ever stopped to wonder what she needed.

No one asked:

Are you tired? Are you in pain? Are you afraid?

She asked herself.

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.

I was once the bridge between East and West, but in truth a rope pulled from both ends.

I lived under many names, many genders, many memories.

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:

Forgive me for wanting to die.

Forgive me for trying to live behind someone else's face.

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.

Not to form a perfect figure,

but to form a human—one who needs no name.

Chapter VII: A Conclusion or a Curse Repeated?

They say destiny is a circle.

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.

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.

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:

"You must call me Grandpa."

The child smiled and replied, in a Vietnamese laced with French:

"But Grandpa... you're my Grandma, aren't you?"

That line sliced through his mind like a blade.

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:

"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.

"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.

There are nights I dream of floating in lavender fields, not rice paddies."

"So you've betrayed your people?"

"No," she answered softly.

"I've only accepted the parts of me I can no longer deny."

Nguyên stepped out of her house, hollow.

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.

Children who didn't know their parents.

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.

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.

Maybe… knowing who you are matters less than living like someone who knows how to love."

He bowed his head.

For the first time, he felt small.

That night, he dreamed of standing before a mirror.

But it didn't reflect him.

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.

Not addressed to anyone.

Just left it on the table:

**"I once wanted to make the world a replica of myself.

But I never knew who I was.

I once hated the mixed.

But now I understand: mixing isn't betrayal—it's a form of survival.

I thought I was preserving identity.

But really, I was afraid—because I never truly understood my own.

Now, I seek no one to punish.

I only wish to learn how to listen."**

No one saw Nguyên again.

Some say he secluded himself in the mountains.

Others claim he went to Africa to volunteer.

Cruel tongues whispered that he went mad, struck by "cultural confusion."

But those who truly understood said nothing.

Because they knew: he wasn't gone.

He had simply dissolved—like all the things he once tried to fight.

And the mixed-blood girl?

She still lived.

Still taught.

Still wandered the markets, wearing a French scarf and a nón lá.

Some days she wore an áo dài.

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:

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.

But if it is a curse,

Let me be the one to repeat it—

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.

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."

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.

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.

To keep Vietnam, never touch another's blood."

She once believed that.

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:

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.

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.

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?"

She answered quietly:

"I don't live to be someone's wife.

Nor to be anyone's version of anything.

I live like the wind—

Free, without gender, without language, without nation.

No one can keep me.

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:

"Then how will anyone prove who you are?"

She smiled and said only this:

"I don't need to prove who I am.

I only need to be remembered as someone who once truly felt alive."

Years later, stories were told—

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:

"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.

The room where Nguyên staged his violation.

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.

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.

But if people still believe—

That life is not to assimilate, but to understand.

That love is not to possess, but to liberate.

…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.

But I am everyone ever torn in two by borders."

Some built statues of her along national frontiers—but carved no name.

Some wrote novels about her—but called her only The Winded One.

Some called her a curse.

Some, an apocalypse.

Some—only whispered in the breeze—called her hope.

In a seaside village where the wind refused to choose direction,

a child once drew in the sand:

a figure with two arms—

one holding a stalk of Vietnamese rice,

the other a sprig of French lavender.

The child didn't know who she was.

But still, they drew.

Because perhaps…

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:

"That mixed-blood girl is studying at our school?"

Then came scrutiny:

"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.

"You've shamed me," her sister spat, eyes clouded with hate.

"I don't want to be seen as having the same blood as you."

But she didn't cry.

She simply told herself:

"As long as I can graduate… that's enough."

And she did graduate.

Not with fanfare, but with blood and tears.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Teachers couldn't see her face but still gave her low marks.

Excellent assignments couldn't score above 7.

She had no friends. No allies. Only screens, cold presentations, and grades that slapped her efforts.

They said, "Everyone passes online classes."

But when she graduated with two Bachelor's degrees and one Master's, they sneered:

"Bought degrees? Who even checks those?"

They didn't know:

Every presentation cut off mid-sentence due to dropped internet.

Every paper rewritten after software crashes.

Every night awake until 3 AM completing demanding academic requirements—done alone, by herself.

They said she lacked hands-on experience?

What about the volunteer hours?

The sessions with autistic children?

The home visits to the depressed—the ones no one else dared approach?

They said online degrees held no value in Vietnam?

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?

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.

That real study, real effort, real failure—are all part of the process.

No one graduates just because they have money.

They once called her the bottom of society.

But they didn't realize: sometimes, it is from the bottom that the strongest souls are born.

Lotuses do not bloom in palaces.

They bloom in mud.

Some said the lotus isn't as beautiful as the rose.

But the lotus doesn't need to be beautiful.

It only needs to live.

To live in silence. In loneliness. In obscurity.

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,"

but do not have even a fraction of the effort, faith, or strength

as the one you once looked down upon as "abnormal"…

…then perhaps it is you who should be ashamed.

Because sometimes,

"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—

and still walked forward with pride,

like a curse that had been transformed into something sacred.

Chapter X: A Message from the Survivor

(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.

I asked myself:

Why didn't my parents fight for me?

Why didn't they shield me the way other parents shield their children?

Why was I the one to suffer in my sister's place?

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.

Your silence, at times, wasn't a lack of love—

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:

You feared that I would be poor, that I would suffer.

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—

The little girl who was once the light of my childhood—are probably someone else now.

Someone with love, with friends, with joy.

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.

Maybe you think I'm selfish.

Maybe you think I don't deserve your love.

Maybe, in your eyes, I was never a good sister.

But dear sister…

Everything I did—I thought of you first.

Whether protecting, sacrificing, or enduring—I never did it for myself.

I only wanted you to have the childhood we both should've had.

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.

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:

Like a sigh in the night.

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.

You did what I didn't have the courage to do.

And now, if I could go back, I would never let you endure that burden alone.

You deserve a happier life than mine.

And if fate demands I pay the price, then I'll live in the shadows—

So long as you can walk in the light.

I will continue to care for our parents as you once did for me.

Not as repayment.

But as redemption.

And even if we never become close again—

Even if the cracks between us never heal—

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.

I ask nothing.

I beg for nothing.

I only hope you understand:

Only forgiveness and compassion can cure the poisons of hatred and selfishness.

But if you cling to the pain like a protective charm…

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.

I am a survivor—not thanks to anyone,

but because of everything you unknowingly sowed.

And from those broken pieces,

I've rebuilt myself into someone who knows how to love—

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—

It will all be too late.

Chapter XI: Forgiving Oneself

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.

It was she who had cursed her mixed-race body, her soul that never seemed to belong anywhere.

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.

"It's daring to look back and say:

You were not wrong for being fragile.

You were not guilty for wanting to give up.

You were simply human."

And she began to write—to herself.

No longer the old accusations, no longer the endless indictments.

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.

You were incredibly brave to survive what others wouldn't even dare to face.

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.

It is to release the roles of "the one who endures,""the silent sacrificer,""the ideal daughter,""the invisible sister"—

And return simply to being someone learning how to live.

No longer must she strain to prove her worth.

No longer must she chase high scores, degrees, or the world's approval to feel valuable.

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.

Her life, her presence, was already a miracle.

Yes, there will still be long nights.

Yes, there will still be stumbles.

But from this moment on, she will no longer wage war against herself.

She will live—not to untangle every misunderstanding,

Not to make others love her again,

Not to reclaim what was lost—

But to understand this:

Every pain that once pierced the heart did not come to destroy it—

But to open a door into it.

And in the deepest part of her soul—

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.

It comes in the moment when someone stands quietly before the mirror—

And sees themselves through eyes no longer clouded with resentment.

If forgiving others is liberation,

Then forgiving oneself is the final redemption.

Chapter XII: Where Dawn Blooms Within the Heart

Dawn does not always begin with light.

Sometimes, it begins with a stillness—deep and quiet—after a long night's storm.

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.

No longer forcing herself to prove her worth.

No longer exhausted from searching for a place to belong.

No longer flinching at mocking words, or hiding from contemptuous eyes.

She was—once more—fully human.

For the first time, she accepted that she was a flower that bloomed out of season.

And because of that, she was beautiful in a way no one else was.

Dawn doesn't begin with the sound of an alarm.

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,

But from the tiny fragments of belief she gathered day by day.

She began to teach—not to flaunt knowledge,

But to give her students what she had longed for: someone who truly listens.

She wrote—not as a cry for help,

But to spark something in others.

She loved—not to fill a void,

But to grow alongside another soul.

Someone once asked her:

"Why do you still choose kindness, when life has treated you so unfairly?"

She simply smiled:

"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—

For she understood: justice is not about equal shares,

But about the right to redefine happiness in your own way.

Her happiness was not in riches, fame, or recognition.

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—

Reminding her of darker days.

But this time, she did not run.

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.

It now resided in her heart—

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.

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.

You don't need to become someone else.

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.

Nor from romantic dates.

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."

But to her, each child was a shimmering fracture—

a star that did not follow constellations, yet still glowed in its own light.

Some could not speak.

Some sat rocking in corners, crying endlessly.

Some hit others, tore books, even scratched her hands raw.

But she never grew angry.

Because she too had once been like that—

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.

She taught empathy.

She didn't push them to excel.

She didn't force them to conform.

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.

A child who once scratched her now folded a crooked little paper crane and gave it to her.

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:

The world is not saved by the great.

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—

but each word wasn't just a story; it was a resurrection of belief.

The belief that no one is "useless."

No one is born to be excluded.

Not her.

Not her sister.

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.

They reached out—not to bestow praise,

But to listen.

"We want you to train teachers for special education," they said.

"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.

Because she knew—she stood for the imperfect.

She stood before the class, not teaching theory.

She simply told stories:

About a boy who once clawed her hand, now gently wiping a friend's tears.

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.

We only need the courage to reach out—

even when that hand is trembling."

End of Chapter:

In this life, perhaps everyone falls into a pit at some point.

But not everyone meets someone willing to climb down, sit beside them, and say:

"I've been here too.

But I got out.

And now, I won't leave you behind."

She became that person—

Not because she was strong.

But because she had known pain.

And only those who have known pain...

can truly heal.

Chapter XIV: The Seasons That Do Not Repeat

There are seasons that pass without promising to return.

Not because the world has changed—

but because the heart has.

And she—after years of dwelling in sorrow that spun in loops,

after reliving memories like rewound tapes—

finally realized something:

Not every season is meant to return.

Some seasons exist to come to an end.

That summer—the one where she curled up on a hospital floor,

bathed in cold white lights and the heavy rhythm of heart monitors—

will never return.

Because now, instead of merely surviving,

she knows how to live.

That autumn—the one where she sat outside the school gates,

watching classmates holding hands on their way to extra classes

while her name was struck from the roster—

will never return.

Because now, instead of waiting to be accepted by others,

she accepts herself.

That winter—the one when she thought of ending it all,

stood by a high balcony, wondering,

"Would anyone cry if I disappeared?"—

will not return either.

Because now, she would be the one to cry for herself

if ever again she dared to let go.

And this spring—

the first spring where she no longer has to pretend to be strong,

no longer has to force joy—

has arrived.

She has begun to love the little things.

The first rain of the season.

A slow, unhurried afternoon.

A book left half-read.

A spontaneous smile

when sunlight filters through a crack in the door.

She is learning to live in the present—

not to forget the past,

but to stop depending on it.

The past is a chapter in the book of life—

it needs to be read,

it deserves to be cried over—

but it must be turned.

Once, while teaching, a student asked her:

"Miss, if someone has been hurt too much,

do they still have the right to be happy?"

She looked at the student, her eyes glistening,

and simply smiled:

"Not only the right.

You need to be happy.

Because those who've known pain—deserve healing more than anyone else."

Each season holds its own sorrow.

Each year leaves new scars.

But like the sun that always rises,

no matter how long the night—

hope always waits at the end of the road.

Not blind faith.

But faith that has once been broken,

and now knows how to rise

on the strength of its scars.

End of Chapter:

The seasons that do not return are not sorrowful ones.

They are proof of growth.

Of a life truly lived—of pain endured, of falls survived—and of still being here.

She knows there will be more fears.

There will be days of confusion.

There will be moments when lovers fall silent,

when friends turn away,

when the world feels cold.

But she also knows this:

No one can take away the seasons she's lived through.

No one can erase the light that once bloomed within her heart.

And if any season must not return—

let it drift away

like a petal falling at the perfect time,

like the closing note of a well-ended song,

like a part of her life once marked by pain...

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.

A place with a warm light at the door,

a bowl of hot rice,

and someone waiting to hear the words, "I'm home."

She was once like that.

She used to believe that a home was a physical place—

an address, family inside,

framed photos hanging on the wall.

But through many losses, she came to understand:

Some homes are not outside.

They dwell within the chest.

A true home isn't the safest place—

but the place where you are most fully yourself.

Not a place without conflict—

but where people choose to stay after anger has passed.

Not a place of perfect comfort—

but where you don't have to pretend to be strong.

She began building that home—within her.

Each brick was an old wound,

washed clean with tears.

Each door was a new belief,

opened after years of being shut.

That house had no concrete foundation.

It was built on compassion—

for herself.

She learned to speak to herself each morning:

"It's okay. You've done really well."

"If someone hurts you today, come back here—this heart-home will hold you."

"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,

she began seeing homes everywhere:

– In the glance of a stranger meeting her gaze with a smile.

– In the rustling sound of a stray cat outside the door.

– 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.

But now, I am the home for my own soul."

Then she remembered her mother.

The mother who once stood silent through her injustices,

now marked by wrinkles.

The mother who once couldn't protect her,

now looked at her with eyes full of sorrow and regret.

Once, she had wanted to scream,

"Why didn't you protect me?"

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

"You may not have been my home.

But I will be your home—when you grow old."

And so, she forgave herself—

for her moments of weakness,

for the times she almost let go,

for loving the wrong people and trusting the wrong places.

Because the home in her heart wasn't a space only for the beautiful.

It was a shelter for cracks and foolishness too.

End of Chapter:

Perhaps no one teaches us how to build a home inside.

But each of us can learn—

from ruin,

from winters spent unwelcomed,

from moldy rented rooms,

from dreams cut short.

And once we learn to become a home for ourselves,

we no longer fear being abandoned.

Because we already have a place to return to—

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.

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.

Not the fear of someone leaving.

But the fear of not being enough.

Not good enough.

Not strong enough.

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.

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.

Tears welled up—

not because someone had insulted her,

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.

But where was the child who once believed that if she just tried hard enough, people would love her?

That child—was still there.

Trembling.

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…

she wrote to herself:

"You don't need to prove anything anymore.

You have the right to be tired.

You have the right to be wrong.

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.

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.

Not to expose everything…

But to feel lighter.

She walked in the rain without an umbrella.

She sent an apology to someone she had upset.

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.

The fear was still there.

The insecurity was still there.

The feeling of being abandoned, misunderstood, rejected—still lingered.

But this time, she embraced it.

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.

Not perfect.

Not pretty.

But exactly where it belonged.

End of Chapter:

People aren't incomplete because they lack good things.

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.

But now, she chose to mend herself with truth.

The truth that she had been weak.

Made mistakes.

Felt envy, harbored resentment, tasted despair.

But also the truth that she—

was the only one who never let go.

And if she had to live another life,

she would still choose to be herself—

with every single piece.

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

She once believed:

To bloom, one needed fertile soil.

A gentle caretaker.

Water, protection, eyes that see, and voices that affirm.

So she spent her youth searching—

for a tender hand,

for a roof wide enough,

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.

It crushes.

It suppresses.

It throws the softest seeds into the harshest gravel and stone.

And then… she realized:

Some flowers don't get watered.

They bloom because there is no other choice but to live.

They called her "thorny."

They said she was "so strong, she became cold."

They said, "She's strange. Not like the rest."

But they didn't know that what they called "thorny"

was the result of once being tender—until pain made her numb.

That what they called "cold"

was the echo of once caring too deeply—until she was left without a word.

That what they called "strange"

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—

She bloomed.

No stage.

No spotlight.

No audience.

She bloomed quietly—like a small miracle.

She bloomed because she had survived.

She bloomed because she no longer waited for permission.

She bloomed because she had learned:

"I don't need to look like any other flower to be beautiful.

I only need to be me—and that is enough."

From that moment on, she did everything with gratitude:

– Ate a meal slowly, without rushing.

– Wore a dress she loved, even if no one complimented her.

– Sent birthday wishes to someone who once hurt her.

– Forgave someone who never knew they had wounded her.

She told herself:

"If a flower only blooms when someone is watching, then it's not a flower—it's a tool.

But I—I am life."

Someone once asked her:

"How do you keep living without anyone's support?"

She smiled:

"Because I waited for a very long time…

Until one day I understood: if I wait for a prince to come before I live happily,

I will die of old age in a tower built from my own fear."

So instead of waiting, she lived.

Instead of hoping someone would come back, she moved forward.

Instead of demanding justice from those who never understood the meaning of "hurt," she learned to hold herself and say:

"It's okay. We still have each other."

End of Chapter:

A flower chooses to bloom—

not because spring has come,

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.

Doesn't need to be lifted up to know she's standing.

Because she has become someone…

who does not bloom to please the world—

but blooms because she is worthy.

Chapter XVIII: Naming the Things That Were Lost

She once tried to forget.

Tried to fold the past into a drawer with no key,

locked it with a smile,

sealed it with busyness.

But some nights, the wind slipped through her fingers,

and in the sound of her own sigh,

she heard something no one else could:

The voice of the things that were lost.

Not loud. Not resentful.

Just whispers that once were flesh and blood.

Someone once asked her:

—"Why do you keep remembering sad things?"

She replied:

—"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—

not to hold on,

but to say goodbye, like one would to a former love.

She named her first fear:

Abandonment.

She once clung to her mother's shirt in the schoolyard while other children gathered in groups.

Startled awake at night when the house was too quiet.

Once wondered: If I vanished, would anyone notice?

Then she named the first teacher who shamed her—

for not being "pure" enough.

She remembered his eyes—colder than winter.

The way he judged her,

as if she were an unforgivable flaw.

She once resented him.

But today, she whispered:

"Thank you, teacher. Because of you, I learned to stand—

even when no one stood beside me."

She named her first love—

the one who claimed to love her for being "different,"

but left when that very difference stopped being "charming."

She once wrote hundreds of unsent messages,

wondering what she had done wrong.

Now she knows:

She was never wrong.

He just didn't have a heart wide enough to hold all the layers of hers.

She named an old dream:

To be seen.

As a child, she thought if she studied hard enough, people would love her.

As she grew older, she replaced that dream with degrees, titles, and posts that racked up likes.

But in the middle of that glow,

she felt empty.

And she whispered to that dream:

"I've done my best.

But now, I don't live for recognition.

I live for peace."

Finally, she named something formless—

A version of herself that had died.

The child who loved the color yellow, believed in fairy tales, and called her father "Superman."

The teenage girl who wrote journals in purple ink and texted her crush just to ask, "Have you eaten yet?"

The girl who once believed everyone in the world was trustworthy.

She cried when she named that former self.

Not out of regret.

But gratitude.

Because without all those versions of herself—

there would be no woman standing strong in today's storms.

End of Chapter:

To name the things that were lost

is not to dwell in the past,

but to say a final goodbye—

like the way one sends off a loved one into the beyond, without lingering guilt.

Because she now understands:

What's lost is not always a loss.

Sometimes, it's the price of growth.

And when we are brave enough to name our pain,

we become capable of naming joy—

when it comes.

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

No one is chasing me anymore.

No one is abandoning me anymore.

No one needs to love me just so I can feel worthy.

Because for the first time in my life, I sat down,

looked deep into my own eyes in the mirror,

and no longer saw a seeker—

but someone… who has come home.

All my life, I thought I had to belong somewhere:

– A family that was whole,

– A community free of judgment,

– A love without conditions,

– A title accepted by society.

I once ran from East to West,

from homeland to foreign land,

from childhood to the present,

from one wound to another,

just to find a "home"—

a place where I could be myself without being rejected.

But then I realized:

Nowhere is home if I don't stay with myself.

Staying—was the hardest thing.

Harder than forgiving others,

was forgiving myself—for being weak, for being blind, for having endured.

Harder than searching for love,

was learning to love myself—even when no one cheered, no one applauded, no one waited.

Harder than surviving storms,

was standing still—to accept that:

"I don't need to go anywhere. I just need to not abandon myself."

I no longer need anyone to call me "worthy."

I don't need to reach some peak to feel "enough."

I don't need to defeat anyone to know my life has meaning.

All I need is to wake up each morning,

see sunlight filter through the curtains,

brew a cup of warm tea,

and smile at the reflection in the mirror:

"Today, I'm still here. And that is enough."

I used to fear being alone—

so much so that I forgot the voice inside.

But the farther I went, the more I understood:

Loneliness doesn't kill.

What kills slowly is not daring to live truthfully.

When I stayed with myself, I heard things I thought were lost:

– The voice of my heart wanting to love again, but not in haste.

– The song of my soul, once broken, still humming.

– The sound of silence—not empty, but deep like a spring.

And at last, I understood:

I don't need to be saved.

Because I was never truly lost.

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.

Some stories just need to end with the truth.

And my truth is this:

I have walked through many people, many dreams, many wounds…

To return—and remain—with myself.

I no longer seek the "perfect happiness."

I only need a quiet corner in my heart—

a place where I can breathe,

where I no longer have to pretend,

where I don't need to prove anything to anyone.

And if someone asks:

– "Do you still want to be loved?"

I will smile and say:

– "Of course. But this time, I'll start with loving myself."

Because…

When someone learns to stay with themselves,

they can never be abandoned again. 

Final Chapter: Lessons Wrapped in Silence

Not every story needs to end with applause.

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—

a girl born between East and West,

a girl carrying wounds carved by history, society, and her own personal trials.

She has journeyed through many lives, many layers of pain and love.

And yet, in the end, what she leaves behind is not tears or resentment—

but light.

Small, perhaps,

but enough to guide others out of darkness.

Below are truths that no school ever teaches—

but she learned them with blood, tears, and unwavering faith.

No one is born to fit perfectly into every mold.

She was once rejected—

not because she did anything wrong,

but because she was different.

And in a world built on standards,

anyone who doesn't match the majority is labeled "flawed."

But the lesson is this:

Being different is not a flaw. It is a form of courage.

The courage to live authentically.

The courage to not distort oneself for others' approval.

Love is not always protection.

Sometimes, people love without knowing how to love.

Parents may stay silent—

not out of hatred, but out of fear greater than their capacity to bear.

Loved ones may hurt us—

but that doesn't mean they haven't hurt watching us in pain.

The lesson is:

Forgiveness is not for others. It is for your own freedom.

Because holding onto resentment keeps us shackled to the past.

No one has the right to judge the worth of a diploma—or a person—based solely on where they come from.

She was once disrespected for studying online,

for being biracial,

for not attending a "prestigious" school.

But what she accomplished—

every lesson, every exam, every sleepless night spent chasing a deadline—

proved this:

True value lies not in the paper, but in the journey taken to earn it.

A bought diploma is paper.

A hard-earned one is part of a lifetime.

No one can truly love you until you learn to love yourself.

She used to chase validation,

used to try so hard to be accepted.

Until one day, she looked at herself and said:

"I don't have to prove anything anymore. Living is already enough."

And from that moment on, she was free.

Sometimes, simply surviving is a kind of miracle.

In a world that only values success through status, wealth, or fame,

she chose to define success as this:

Still being gentle—despite everything that's happened. You don't need to become someone else. You only need to return to yourself—and live that truth fully.

She was once the abandoned child,

the sister who carried all the scars,

the expelled student,

the one scorned for being "impure."

But in the end, she was not a "victim."

She was a survivor.

And more than that, she was someone who finally understood:

No one owes us happiness.

We must be the ones to write our own ending—

even if our story began as a tragedy.

Epilogue:

Her story doesn't need to be made into a movie or printed in textbooks.

It only needs to be remembered—

by someone who once felt lonely,

understood—

by someone who was once seen as different,

wept over—

by someone who once struggled to survive.

And if you are holding this book,

reading to the very last line,

then please hold onto the simplest truth she ever came to know:

Life is a long, challenging journey.

But if we remain gentle enough

to not become the very thing we once feared—

then we have already won.

APPENDIX

I. Symbolism ExplainedTwo 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 TimelinePast 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 ChapterIV. 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

Role

Name / Alias

Core Traits

Narrator (Main Character)

An

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:

Vietnamese husband → Discriminated in the West → Dies quietly

→ Reincarnated through blood Life 2:

Western woman → Wife of Vietnamese man → Dies of illness → Blood transfused into Vietnamese boy

→ Spiritual merging Life 3:

Vietnamese boy with a Western soul → Rejected by both East and West → Faces violence, abuse, and exploitation

→ Becomes the "One Who Carries Two Winds"VII. Recommended Music & Films While Reading

Suggested Soundtracks:

"Experience" – Ludovico Einaudi

→ Soft, evocative of memory and inner life. "Nuvole Bianche" – Ludovico Einaudi

→ Ideal for chapters on loss and rebirth. "In This Shirt" – The Irrepressibles

→ A haunting song about gender, identity, and the pain of living outside norms. "Breathe Me" – Sia

→ Perfect for the story's ending—survival, loneliness, and the yearning to be understood.

Complementary Films:

Cloud Atlas (2012)

→ A film about reincarnation, multiplicity of being, and soul connections across time. The Danish Girl (2015)

→ The journey to reclaim one's true identity across gender, society, and compassion. A Silent Voice (2016 – Anime)

→ A story of atonement and healing among those who once inflicted pain. The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick)

→ A cinematic meditation on life, loss, and forgiveness—where beauty meets sorrow.           

Author: Pham Le Quy