The Lạc River ran unusually high this season. Mats of water hyacinth swept down from upstream, drifting aimlessly before being caught in swirling currents and slammed against the hulls at the ferry pier. Tiểu Hạ stood on the bank, watching the pale purple blossoms struggle not to be dragged under, and wondered whether her own fate was any different from theirs.
Ever since Quốc Khải had sent home that strange bundle of money, the small house shared by ông Diên and his daughter had grown thick with silence. Ông Diên no longer coughed as much as before—because he no longer had the strength to cough. He lay motionless on the bamboo bed, his eyes fixed on the patched thatched roof, where sunlight leaked through in long streaks, like slashes cutting into the air.
"Hạ… take that money… return it to the post office," ông Diên murmured, his voice mingling with the scent of rotting wood and bitter herbal medicine.
Tiểu Hạ knelt beside his bed, holding a bowl of thin rice porridge, tears pooling in her eyes."Father, that money was earned through Khải's hardship. He said he carries loads, works nights… Please use it to buy medicine. When you're better, you can scold him then."
Suddenly, ông Diên jerked upright. Some unseen force drove him to seize Hạ's wrist, his bony hands trembling violently."You don't understand… you don't understand at all! That boy Khải has the eyes of an enemy. That money isn't meant to save my life—it's the price of his conscience. Even if I die, I will not use it!"
A violent coughing fit overtook him. He collapsed back onto the pillow, breath coming in broken gasps. Panicked, Tiểu Hạ rubbed his chest, her heart splitting with pain. She was trapped between the two most important men in her life: a father whose integrity bordered on the extreme, and a lover who had plunged into the mud for her sake. Like the water hyacinth, she was being pushed by currents from both sides, with no shore in sight.
The next morning, another storm rose—this time from the village itself.
Bà Mót, the village gossip, stood at the head of the lane, her mocking voice loud enough for Hạ to hear:"Well, would you look at that—little Hạ, ông Diên's daughter, sure has a lucky fate. Khải's only been in the city a few months and already money's flowing home like water. Heard he's in some profession that makes people rich real fast. Won't be long before he brings Hạ up to the city to live like a madam. Not like other folks' kids, working themselves to the bone just to get by."
Whispers spread quickly. People said Khải was doing dirty work. People said Hạ was a gold digger. In a poor village, gossip cut sharper than a carpenter's chisel. Every time Tiểu Hạ went to the ferry pier or the market, she felt disdainful and curious stares boring into her back.
Standing in the market, clutching a few coins to buy meat for her father, she met the pitying looks of old acquaintances. Shame surged up in her chest. Tiểu Hạ turned and ran straight to the riverbank.
She sat down on the silted shore, staring at the raging current. In that moment, the frailty of a seventeen-year-old girl reached its breaking point. She wanted to give up—to drift away like the water hyacinth, so she would not have to face hunger, her father's illness, or the terrifying changes in the man she loved.
But then, inside her pocket, the wooden comb carved with a summer flower brushed against her skin. A warm current seemed to run up her spine.
No. She could not sink.
If she sank, what would happen to her father? And what of Quốc Khải—what would become of him if, one day, he returned to the Lạc ferry pier and no longer found her there?
Tiểu Hạ stood up and brushed the dust from her skirt.
She made a decision: if the current was too fierce, she would learn how to swim. If the city was changing Quốc Khải, then she would be the one to pull him back.
She returned home, gathered all the money Khải had sent, and hid it at the bottom of the chest as her father had instructed, not spending a single coin. Instead, Hạ took on more work. By day she cut grass and herded cattle for others; by night, under the flickering oil lamp, she patiently wove bamboo baskets and mats to send to the district town for sale.
The once-soft hands of the young girl grew marked with cuts from the sharp bamboo strips. Some nights, exhausted beyond measure, she fell asleep beside the pile of bamboo, dreaming of Khải's flute—but now its melody carried the sound of weeping.
"Hạ… you're suffering too much," ông Diên said, watching her, tears streaming down his hollowed cheeks.
"I'm all right, Father," she smiled—a weary smile, yet filled with resolve."I'm your summer flower, aren't I? A summer flower has to endure the scorching sun."
But the raging current of life was not finished with her yet.
One night, bà Ngỏ the madwoman burst into their yard, clutching a withered tamanu branch, pointing it straight at Hạ as she screamed:"Go! Poor child, go and save his heart before it turns to stone! The Lạc River is running dry! The city is about to swallow your Khải!"
Tiểu Hạ looked at bà Ngỏ. For the first time, she felt no fear—only a terrifying sense of unease. She turned her gaze toward the road leading to the district town, where distant electric lights beckoned.
She knew she could no longer stand still at the ferry pier like a water hyacinth, letting the current decide her fate.
She had to go to the city.
She had to see Quốc Khải with her own eyes—to know whether his shoulders were carrying the future, or carrying destruction.
Inside the silent house, the familiar cok… cok… of carpentry had fallen completely silent. Only the wind slipped through the bamboo walls, and the labored breathing of the old man remained.
Tiểu Hạ clenched the wooden comb in her hand. A strange determination shone in her eyes.
The fragile water hyacinth had finally decided—not to drift with the current any longer, but to swim against it, back toward the source of the violent waves.