Yên Pha stepped through the grand gate, the steady sound of her heels echoing across the tiled path. The warm yellow glow of the streetlights cast her slender figure in a soft hue, like a solitary silhouette emerging from a vintage painting. Behind her lay the house rife with strife that she had left behind at the age of twenty, and before her stretched an open expanse, yet her heart remained heavy.

By the car, Uncle Tứ stood waiting, the door already opened, his kind eyes filled with concern. As she approached, he bowed slightly:

"Miss Third, where would you like to go?"

Before Yên Pha could respond, Trí Tuấn, the man who had been patiently waiting for her in the back seat, stepped out. He greeted her with a slight bow, his eyes watching her with discreet concern:

"Miss Yên Pha, would you like to go home? You don't look well."

She paused, glanced at him briefly, then shook her head. Her voice was calm yet distant:

"There's no need. Returning now would only worsen my mood. Uncle Tứ, take me to Chanson Saigon lounge."

Trí Tuấn frowned slightly but spoke slowly, his voice steady but laced with worry:

"Are you certain? If you're tired, you should rest instead of going to a noisy place."

Yên Pha turned to face him, her serene gaze brushing over him. She offered a faint smile, devoid of warmth:

"That place isn't noisy. At least there, I'll feel more at ease than at home."

Without waiting for further objections, she stepped into the car, her demeanor poised yet cold, like an immovable statue. Trí Tuấn hesitated briefly, then followed, taking a seat beside her.

The car rolled onto streets already lit for the evening. Inside, the silence was palpable, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of wind rushing past. Trí Tuấn glanced at her, noting how her gaze was fixed on the window, distant as though she were no longer present.

Finally, he broke the silence:

"Is it the matter at home that weighs on your mind again today?"

Yên Pha turned, her sharp eyes meeting his without hostility. She replied slowly:

"It's not about the house but the people. People fight for money, power, or whatever else they desire, but the saddest thing is forgetting the essence of family."

Trí Tuấn didn't respond immediately. He understood her words, but what he admired most was her ability to remain composed despite living amidst such turmoil.

Nguyen Hue Boulevard at night glowed under the golden light of vintage streetlamps, stretching out like a string of luminous pearls. Lush tamarind trees lined the sidewalks, their leafy canopies casting gentle shadows. Classic cars rolled by leisurely, mingling with a few rickshaws and bicycles operated by late-night workers. In the distance, the faint ringing of a bell added to the characteristic rhythm of 1960s Saigon life.

In front of Chanson Saigon lounge, a neon sign with French-style cursive lettering shone softly, its light dancing on the pavement like glassy reflections. A row of elegant cars was parked along the curb, and gentlemen in dapper suits stepped out, some holding canes or hats, gallantly opening doors for ladies clad in glamorous dresses. Gentle chatter mixed with the mellow notes of a saxophone drifting from inside, evoking a scene that was both intimate and refined, like a prelude to an exceptional story.

Yên Pha stepped out of the car, her footsteps deliberate and graceful on the sidewalk, each movement exuding elegance and poise. She entered Chanson Saigon lounge, the dim golden light within blending seamlessly with her presence. The faint fragrance of fresh flowers wafted through the air. The atmosphere, lively yet not noisy, was a perfect fusion of modernity and classic charm, ideal for those seeking solace.

Passing through the polished wooden-framed glass doors, she entered a warm and inviting space. Round tables draped in red velvet cloths were illuminated by flickering candles in vintage lamps. Every corner was meticulously arranged, from the pristine white orchids in ceramic pots to a large oil painting of a dancer poised under stage lights.

As she entered, the lounge's proprietor immediately recognized her and hurried forward with a bright smile and a familiar warmth:

"Welcome, Miss Third Pha, it's a pleasure to have you at Chanson Saigon," the proprietor said, her tone respectful.

Yên Pha said nothing, offering only a slight nod, her gaze steady and cool as it met the proprietor's. Her eyes, cold yet commanding, seemed to convey that everything was under her control.

Breaking the silence, Trí Tuấn addressed the proprietor with his usual courtesy:

"Miss Third would like a private table. Could you arrange that, please?"

Unperturbed, the proprietor responded swiftly with a kind smile:

"Of course, Miss Third, I'll prepare it immediately."

As the proprietor turned to leave, Yên Pha reached into her purse and drew out a crisp 10 Đông Đông Dương note, placing it lightly on the table in one fluid motion. She said nothing further, her glance at the proprietor sufficient to convey her wishes clearly.

Trí Tuấn said nothing, standing quietly by her side, ever ready to wait. Gentle music wafted from inside, enveloping the lounge in a serene and relaxing atmosphere. Everything in Chanson Saigon seemed self-contained, and Yên Pha, like a figure in that painting, sought her own quiet refuge amidst the noise of life outside.

At the center of the room stood a small, elevated stage bathed in the warm glow of amber lights where the artists performed. A sleek black piano sat still, waiting for its next musician. Beside it, the contrabass and saxophone harmonized softly, weaving a captivating and soothing melody.

The seating arrangement was thoughtfully designed, offering both privacy and a shared ambiance. Most of the guests were intellectuals, businesspeople, or art enthusiasts. They spoke in hushed tones, sipped wine from crystal glasses, or simply sat silently, immersed in the music. Everything flowed like a tranquil river, carrying away sorrow or offering peace to those who sought solace here.

The gentle lighting illuminated faces just enough to reveal every expression and emotion. The space seemed to merge into itself, creating an atmosphere both elegant and deeply evocative. Chanson Saigon was a mesmerizing haven of tranquility, perfect for those seeking serenity amidst the bustling city. The chandeliers' crystal prisms reflected soft, shimmering patterns onto the polished wooden floor. A faint fragrance of tea and flowers lingered in the air, crafting an inviting environment-quiet yet deeply alluring.

Soft jazz music floated from the piano in the corner, blending seamlessly with the saxophone's mellow tones. The notes seemed to drift effortlessly through the room, drawing attentive ears from everyone present. The dim light added a dreamlike quality, making it feel as though one had stepped into a world of music, tea, and untold stories.

A performance began. A singer dressed in a sleek black gown stepped onto the stage. Her voice, tender and soulful, carried an irresistible allure. Sweet yet poignant, her singing resonated through every corner of the room, deepening the quietude. Her eyes sparkled under the lights as she followed each lyric, as though sharing a private tale with each listener.

The room fell into an enraptured silence. The guests watched her every movement, whispering only occasionally. All were captivated by the music, the atmosphere thick with emotion, creating a warm and comforting space.

Yên Pha sat still, her eyes fixed on the stage. She sank into the music, finding peace within it-a moment to breathe after days filled with turbulence. Suddenly, the musician's voice came through the microphone:

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, we will perform a special song, 'Return Youth to Her,' a poignant ballad of bygone emotions and lost love."

He smiled, turned to the piano, and began playing softly, the notes flowing like gentle waves. The saxophone joined in, and the singer's voice once again filled the room with tender emotion:

"Return to her those vibrant days,

Now she's a wilted flower,Faded and torn,Still loving the one who's moved on."

Yên Pha closed her eyes, letting each lyric seep into her heart. She did not know what story the song told, yet every word touched a part of her memory, evoking emotions long buried. Her gaze softened, no longer seeing anything but the lyrics and melody surrounding her.

"She's gone far away, love is no more,
But in my heart, she remains..."

The singer's voice, delicate and profound, seemed to reach into her soul, filling every corner with poignant beauty. Yên Pha sat still, allowing each note to soothe the thoughts swirling within her. She let the music guide her through its emotional peaks and valleys.

From afar, the lounge's proprietor observed Yên Pha immersed in the music. At this moment, she was no longer the woman caught in conflicts or burdened by responsibilities. She was simply someone seeking tranquility amid life's chaos.

The song continued, and the atmosphere grew quieter, more introspective:

"Twelve currents, murky waters,
Her life now wilted,
To move forward is impossible,
To stand still, loneliness."

The piano's flowing notes washed over the audience, as tender as a lapping tide. Everyone in the lounge remained silent, each person lost in their own reverie. Yên Pha sat there, fully absorbed in the ambiance, a part of this world, unable-or perhaps unwilling-to escape the thoughts and emotions stirring within her.

-----