With a roll of drawing paper slung over her shoulder, Nhu Ha pedaled her bicycle toward home. On the way, she stopped at a repair shop.

The owner, a plump middle-aged man, examined her worn pedal and shook his head with pity. He advised that if she wanted the bicycle to last, she should replace it with a sturdier one. But of course, a single new pedal would look odd next to the shabby old one. And the other pedal was already so worn out, it would soon break as well.

After haggling with him for a while, Nhu Ha finally surrendered and, with a pang in her heart, pulled out her wallet once more—paying for a brand-new pair of pedals for her old bicycle.

Crouching by the side, she watched as the man unbolted the pedals, tossing the rusty pair aside. She picked them up, dropping them into her basket. They can at least be sold for scrap, she thought. The shop owner frowned slightly at her frugal action, but said nothing and continued his work, screwing the new pedals firmly into place.

Gazing at the freshly fitted pedals on her weather-beaten bicycle, Nhu Ha sighed inwardly. Maybe I should just ask Uncle to buy me a new bike... But then she remembered—this bicycle had once belonged to her mother. That thought was enough for her to abandon the idea altogether.

The new pedals were sturdy and firm. With time to spare, she pedaled slowly, letting her thoughts wander as she rode.

The familiar road stretched before her, a reverse reflection of the morning path. She had lived in this seaside city since she was a child—perhaps even since birth. For more than a decade, she and her mother had depended on each other, until he appeared.

Nhu Ha cycled close to the roadside, where the sea lay just beyond. Golden sand stretched out from the crumbling stone pavement, where coconut roots had cracked the bricks and lifted them like stubborn scars of time. No one knew when the walkway would ever be repaired.

Beneath the swaying palms, the wind carried the briny scent of the ocean. I'll need a bath when I get home, she thought with a small laugh. Ever since her mother was alive, she had always kept the habit of washing thoroughly whenever she returned from outside.

That memory made her smile faintly, though it soon curved into something bittersweet. She recalled the early days of living with that man. Everything about them clashed. Even her habit of changing clothes after every shower had driven him nearly mad. Whenever laundry day came, his pile was nothing more than a few threadbare singlets and shorts—while hers seemed endless.

A lonely, ordinary man, suddenly forced to raise the daughter of his lover.

Pitiful.

Drip. Drip.

Rain?

Startled, Nhu Ha felt drops of water slide down her arm. Looking up, she realized the sky had darkened without her noticing. June had barely begun, and yet the first summer rain was already falling.

The shower came without warning, heavy and relentless. No passerby could escape. Neither could she. The cap on her head, useful only against the sun, was useless now. Who would have thought to bring a raincoat under such a bright sky? Thankfully, her sketch papers were tucked safely in a waterproof tube.

Her new pedals didn't slip under the downpour. Gripping the handlebars tightly, she pressed her feet with all her strength, racing through the sheets of rain. But the sky showed no mercy; the storm only grew heavier, faster, darker. By the time she reached her alley, she was soaked through, trembling like a drowned bird.

The narrow lane still allowed small trucks to pass, and at the end stood her old house with its sliding iron gate. Rainwater blurred her vision, making it hard to fit the key into the lock. She fumbled, missing several times before the door finally gave way.

She yanked it open so roughly that the metal screeched. Tossing her bicycle into a corner, she peeled off her cap, water dripping down her face in cold streams. Shivering, she wiped her eyes, pulled the paper tube from her basket, kicked off her shoes, and stomped lightly on the mat to shake off the rain before rushing inside.

The house was silent, still. She flicked on the light, and warm yellow filled the room. Stripping off her wet shirt, jeans, and underwear, she tossed them into the washing machine outside the bathroom, then darted in.

Turning the shower to warm, Nhu Ha stepped under the spray. The water streamed over her smooth skin, gliding along the soft curves of youth, washing away the lingering chill of the storm. Uncle's probably not back yet, she thought.

That man—the one who had once been her mother's lover.

The one who had even proposed marriage to her mother.

For the past three years, he had been the one raising her. A long-haul truck driver, he was often away for days, sometimes weeks. But every time he returned, he would always ask carefully about the household, his familiar words echoing in her ears:

"Do you still have enough money, child?"