Nhu Ha had registered for an art class, but she did not tell Thanh Quan. Not that it was difficult to keep from him—he was busy enough. After his long trip, these past days he had only taken delivery jobs within the city or nearby towns, yet even so, he rarely returned before dusk.

Nhu Ha's grades remained excellent. In fact, she had recently ranked among the top three students of her entire grade during the last semester of her sophomore year. Thanh Quan delighted in attending her parent-teacher meetings, perhaps because in those moments he felt the deep, almost paternal pride of an aging man whose girl was growing into someone accomplished.

Sometimes, he sighed—at this pace, for Nhu Ha to be admitted into a prestigious university in some grand city would hardly be difficult. But the thought of her leaving this small, familiar Lam Hai behind, to wander into a vast and unfamiliar world, unsettled him. His colleagues, fathers themselves, sympathized easily. What parent with a daughter did not lie awake at night with such worries gnawing at them?

To Thanh Quan, she was still the little girl, too young to stand alone. Until one morning, as he drove past a small bakery near their home, he glimpsed her behind the counter. His little one, secretly taking on a part-time job. In that instant, the realization struck him: she was stepping beyond him, taking her first uncertain steps toward independence. And he felt... hollow.

He gave her money every week. Was it not enough? Did she need more? Or perhaps, he thought uneasily, teenage girls always needed more?

That evening, he sat across from her, speaking not as guardian to child, but as one adult to another.

"Your only task now is to study. The house is not so poor that you should need to take up such work. If you need money for anything, tell me. Don't be shy. I know girls your age must want many little things."

He had pulled bills from his wallet. But Nhu Ha quickly pushed his hand back.

"I'm not short of money. I still have plenty from last week."

She insisted, but he did not believe her. Still, she refused to quit her job. At sixteen, nearly seventeen, she had begun to claim decisions as her own.

Nhu Ha was neither stubborn nor rebellious. She was simply of an age where thoughts and choices bud into something that resembles autonomy. She also knew well that the man before her—gentle when coaxed, but firm if pushed—would yield to softness. So her voice was light, her smile playful as she winked:

"You worry too much. It's summer break. I just want to fill the free hours."

She reassured him: the work was simple, merely minding the counter. A harmless pastime. Staring at trays of delicate cakes even eased her weariness from the long hours of dry, supplemental lessons.

And so, in this quiet battle of wills, Nhu Ha triumphed. Sometimes customers dropped by, saying they came because a friend recommended the shop. She would glance at the uniforms of the Lam Hai Transport Company and know exactly who that "friend" was. Warmth bloomed in her chest. Yet she dared not tell him she was also taking art classes. Imagine if she asked him to teach her himself—how much tuition that would save. But such a thought was impossible.

As a beginner, she painted still-lifes. The reality was duller than her imagination. She had thought an art class would lead her straight into vivid canvases alive with color. Instead, she spent hours sharpening pencils, squinting at measuring strings, sketching spheres and blocks. Cold. Mechanical.

The teacher, as Bach My had promised, was attentive. Especially to novices like her. He taught her the proper way to sharpen a pencil, to hold it so her hand would not smear graphite across the page.

She studied his hands—slender, pale, sprinkled with faint stains of paint, like blossoms scattered across snow. Strange, she thought, that two men of the same age could be so different: her uncle's hands were rough, like the paws of a bear, but these... these belonged to someone who had once lived with brushes and colors. Once, perhaps, they had been even more beautiful.

Suddenly, a chill pressed down on her own hand. Reflexively, she tried to pull away, but his grip was iron.

Startled, she turned her head. The teacher bent close behind her, his shadow enveloping her, his breath fanning against her ear. It was cool, almost icy, carrying with it the faint bitterness of tangerine peel. The scent was not overwhelming, yet it unsettled her. Goosebumps prickled along her arms.

His voice was gentle, calm—too calm.

"You're holding the pencil wrong. Place your finger here, on the shaft. Yes... just so. See? The stroke comes out sharper, more decisive."