Nhu Ha had signed up for a painting class from three-thirty to five-thirty in the afternoon. Around that time, she could usually head home, warm up the food she had prepared in advance and tucked into the fridge, and wait for Thanh Quan to come back so they could share dinner together.

But this afternoon, she went with Bach My to browse the old art-supply street near the city's teacher-training college. At first, she had planned to go alone, but Bach My insisted on tagging along, saying she was afraid Nhu Ha might get tricked by the shopkeepers there into buying overpriced supplies.

Since the college offered art as part of its program, it wasn't surprising that the shops nearby were so well-stocked. In fact, there were even two art stores right next to each other, selling brushes, watercolor sets, and oil paints that were far better than anything found at the multipurpose bookstores.

It was a small city—life here seemed to fit into just a handful of streets wrapped around the beach. Nhu Ha had never strayed far from her neighborhood and the cram schools she attended. The college was perched on a hillside overlooking the sea, where the sound of the waves crashing against the shore could still be heard.

Pedaling hard up the slope, Nhu Ha glanced sideways at Bach My, who was gliding up easily on her electric bike. Nhu Ha gritted her teeth.

"If I'd known it was this steep, I'd have just hopped on with you. Why didn't you tell me?"

Bach My bared her dazzling white teeth—teeth so perfect they could star in a toothpaste ad—and laughed innocently, almost asking for a smack.
"You didn't ask. Anyway, think of it as exercise."

The slope wasn't that long—five, maybe ten minutes later, they were already at the top. Bach My led her into a familiar shop, where Nhu Ha nearly staggered at the price of the American Journey watercolor set her friend used.

It turned out not only the teacher ordered special supplies. Bach My's paints too had been imported on request, through the shopkeeper's connections to an art supplier for the Fine Arts University in the big city.

For a fleeting moment, Nhu Ha thought about asking the bakery owner to give her an extra shift so she could save up for a set like that. But then she remembered her packed exam schedule. If she worked more, she might not have time to study—and worse, if Thanh Quan discovered her lie, everything would unravel. So she swallowed the thought.

Following the shopkeeper's advice, she chose a more modest watercolor set for beginners. The Pentel samples she tried had a gentle softness to their hues, the water spread evenly and beautifully across the Canson paper, and the quality was more than enough for her practice. Most importantly, it was within her budget. She bought a twelve-color set, along with some paper, brushes, and a palette. Then, fingering the thinness of her wallet, she wondered if this decision to pursue painting had really been the right one.

On their way down, she paused and looked toward the sea below.

Not far away, the waves were whispering against the shore. In her mind's eye, the image of that unfinished painting of the young girl by the sea surfaced once again.

A beautiful girl, fingers holding the edge of her dress that swayed in the wind, her black hair swept across her delicate profile.

The blue of the sea against the pale golden sky—together they created a scene achingly tender, achingly poetic.

But it was a painting left undone, one the artist likely never intended to finish, its colors fading away inside that old wooden chest.

Nhu Ha had not taken up painting to complete that forgotten canvas.

She wanted to paint something new with her own hands. A different landscape, a different story. One where the figure in the painting was someone she had carried in her heart for a very long time.

After saying goodbye to Bach My, arms full of her purchases, Nhu Ha sped down the road and pedaled furiously toward home. It was already close to six-thirty. Even though it would take only ten minutes to reach the house, she hadn't realized choosing paints would take so much time.

A small knot of worry tugged at her chest: what if Thanh Quan caught her with these supplies? How would he react? She was curious—but her instinct for self-preservation told her it would be best to hide them. So she had brought her school backpack along, just in case. Even if he saw it, he wouldn't suspect much.

Smiling to herself, she pedaled hard until she reached the house. But when she saw no lights shining from the living room, she sighed. She had forgotten—sometimes he came home even later than she did.

She parked her bike, switched on the lights, tucked the backpack into her room's wardrobe, and headed straight to the kitchen to fulfill her noble duty of cooking.

She reheated the dishes and fried a few slices of salted chili-seasoned fish. By the time everything was ready, it was nearly seven. Staring at the clock, she felt a pang of gloom. She was used to waiting in this house, used to the quiet stretches of time spent alone—but the emptiness never failed to weigh on her, that loneliness of being only one person at the table.

Seven-thirty.

Nhu Ha picked up the remote and began flicking through TV channels. On the dining table, the food was already laid out: golden, crispy fried beltfish, glossy braised pork with eggs, and a steaming bowl of fresh, green mustard-green soup. All of Thanh Quan's favorites. She worried that by the time he came back, the fish would be soggy, the meat cold, the soup lifeless.

Eight o'clock came and went.

Her heart began to race with unease. Today, Thanh Quan had only been making deliveries around the nearby neighborhoods. At worst, like before, he should have been home by a little past seven. Why was he still not back?

She didn't dare call him. What if he was driving?