Thanh Quan—a man in his thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, his features still bearing a rough kind of handsomeness weathered by the road. His hair was slicked back, though a few strands fell carelessly across his temple. It had been too long since his last trim; at the back, he tied a small tail.

Exhausted, he leaned against the driver's seat, a cigarette pressed between his lips as smoke curled upward, blurring into the afternoon haze. He was waiting for the warehouse workers to unload the crates.

It had been a grueling long-haul trip, hauling fruit across the border. For three days and nights he and his partner had taken turns behind the wheel, pushing through endless miles of road. Now the truck sat heavy but safe, the border crossed, the delivery made. All that remained was the tedious part—unloading, counting, signing the contract papers before heading back.

As the cigarette burned low, a thought slipped through his weary mind—that little girl back home. What was she doing at this very moment? Was she cooking, or humming softly to herself in the quiet of their small house? The image sent a strange warmth through his chest, one that lingered even as smoke curled around his tired face.

The shouts below dragged him back. Irritation pricked his nerves. He climbed down from the truck, not even bothering to shut the door, and tugged his young assistant aside to ask what was going on.

It didn't take long to see—the bald, pot-bellied warehouse manager was raising a fuss, jabbing a thick finger at a few crates already opened for inspection. His assistant, green and untested, looked cornered, stammering as the older man scrutinized each fruit as though wielding a magnifying glass.

The matter escalated quickly. The manager accused them of arriving late, claimed an entire crate had spoiled, and demanded they pay compensation.

The boy snapped—shouting in his dialect, nearly cursing the man's entire family tree.

But Thanh Quan had seen this a thousand times before. Years of long-distance hauling had taught him one thing: there would always be leeches waiting at the finish line, ready to wring money from drivers with tricks and false blame.

He silenced the boy with a firm hand on his shoulder, then stepped forward himself. His sheer size, the solid weight of his presence, made the shorter man unconsciously falter. The warehouse manager's words spilled out fast, but his voice had lost its edge.

Coolly, Thanh Quan reached into his backpack and pulled out the contract. He slapped it open in front of the man's face.

There it was in black and white—departure date, arrival date, clauses exempting drivers from liability if fruit spoiled naturally despite on-time delivery.

This trip had been smooth. No storms, no delays. A few rough roads, yes, but they had arrived well within the deadline. The man's accusations collapsed under the weight of official paper and ink.

The manager scowled, muttered curses at the packaging team, then grudgingly stamped the receipt. The goods were cleared. The trip was done.

The way back should have been three days as well, but fate had its own plans. An accident blocked the main highway, forcing them onto a detour. The road was bad, gravel tearing at the tires until one burst, costing them more precious hours.

By the time they rolled into the company lot, they were late.

Thanh Quan signed off the truck, pocketed his pay, then slung his backpack across his shoulder. Down in the basement, he wheeled out his battered cub motorbike. Just as he mounted, rain began to pour.

At the company's entrance, the younger drivers fought over the limited raincoats like wolves over a carcass. Thanh Quan ran a hand through his damp hair, chuckled darkly, then decided against waiting. Better to face the rain than waste time here. And maybe... just maybe, I'll surprise her tonight.

He strapped the pack across his chest and revved the engine, weaving through sheets of rain toward the familiar alley. The storm blurred the world into streaks of water and light, but his mind was elsewhere.

Was Nhu Ha home now, or had she gone to a friend's? She never seemed lonely, never once showed sadness when left alone. It was strange...

But he remembered, once, long ago. Their first year living together. His first trip away. Only two days. But when he returned, she had opened the door with eyes rimmed red, like a little rabbit scolding him through her tears. That sight had stabbed at his heart, left a mark deeper than he cared to admit.

He hadn't resisted—he had gathered her small frame against his chest, breathing in the faint scent of soap and childhood. She had just lost her mother, and the man who took her in was gone more often than not. The house they shared was too empty, too cold. It reminded him of his own past, of nights spent alone with nothing but fading photographs for company.

But after that first sulk, it never happened again. Every time he returned afterward, her eyes were calm, glassy, like a summer sea—sometimes rippling faintly, but never stormy.

Once, unable to hold back, he had asked her: "Aren't you ever lonely when I'm gone? Don't you miss me?"

She had looked up from her homework, blinking at him in bemusement. Then, without a word, she snatched the TV remote and clicked the screen off with a sharp snap. Setting it down, her lips had curved into a playful, mocking smile.

"Why would I be sad? Without you here, no one nags me about homework. I can watch as much TV as I like. If I get bored, I just go to my friend's place. Sometimes I even stay overnight."

That word—overnight—had jolted him. He had demanded an address, a phone number, even dragged her by the wrist to the friend's house himself. Only when he saw the cheerful girl who welcomed Nhu Ha, eager to have her stay and study together, did he finally breathe again.

What he never knew was that afterward, Nhu Ha had quietly skipped breakfasts to save money for a fresh cake from the bakery—a bribe for her friend to host her overnight.