Night train

Illustration: LE DUY

The train rolled out at 8pm. That night, the moon was as bright as a mirror hanging in the sky, shining down on every rail, every sparse leaf on the roadside. I sat by the window, letting my soul drift along the moonlight. And like a quiet fate, that night, I met many lives, listened to many stories of life, stories of people, enough to empathize with distant things.

1. She boarded the train from Hue station, carrying a worn-out shopping basket, the scent of incense wafting from the tightly tied cloth package. The train rolled out of the station, she sat down, smiling casually: "I only go to the North a few times a year, delivering goods to a few familiar shops."

Her voice was low, carrying the scent of mountain smoke. She said that her family lived in the highlands, and they made a living by making incense all year round. “Cut bamboo on sunny days, and dry cinnamon when the wind is favorable. Making incense is done by hand, but living with the profession is living contentedly.” Her eyes drooped with a very old feeling: “Last year, there was a bad harvest. The children dropped out of school to follow their friends to the city to work. For a long time, none of them have returned home. I don’t know what their future will be like.” Her words were light, but it sounded as if the incense was half-burned.

I didn’t know what to say, I just felt the scent of incense in the cloth basket suddenly become more intense. When she got off the train, her small figure gradually disappeared at the end of the carriage, leaving behind a thin, light but lingering scent. There are people who pass by us only for a short distance but leave behind a lasting scent like her – a strange woman walking along the moonlit seasons, hastily sowing into people’s hearts a feeling of sympathy and pity.

The train was still moving slowly. The person who took his place was an old passenger. His hair was stained with the color of time. He said that he was a former literature teacher, retired ten years ago, now living alone in Ha Tinh. "I'm visiting an old friend in Hanoi . I don't know if I can go in a few months, so I have to take advantage of it now." I nodded, seeing a small joy in his eyes.

He talked about the years of teaching in the flood-prone area, students going to school by bamboo boat, and the classrooms were dilapidated. “I am old, I can forget to eat a meal, forget an old friend, but I cannot forget the eyes of poor students when they read a good poem. They lit up like oil lamps in the night.” I looked at his worn-out coat, his old backpack, and then at his eyes, although they were opaque, they exuded an unusual warmth, like a warm fire in the humid space of a flood day.

2. The young girl sat across from us. Her hair was tied up high, her face was elegant. All evening, her eyes kept looking out at the moonlight shining through the window. Surely in that vast gaze were many waves rushing around. When she felt close enough, she did not hesitate to tell. Tears just kept flowing with each choked word: “I went to find my father.

He left when I was little. Last week someone called and said he was at a cattle camp near the border.” She was silent for a moment, then continued, her voice dropping: “I thought I didn’t need my father. But the older I get, the more empty I feel. There are gaps that no one can and will never fill. My mother died early, and I grew up in strange homes. Maybe people have to come back to mend their own shortcomings. Even though I don’t know if he needs this daughter or not.”

I looked at that girl, fragile yet strangely strong. It turned out that sometimes, regardless of whether that man happily accepted his unacknowledged child or not, just knowing that his only relative was alive and well was a great comfort. Outside the window, the moon was as thin as a silver thread, hanging over the treetops, passing by my eyes. The train still ran, carrying with it unnamed private joys.

3. Since I was little, I have been accustomed to long journeys on the old market train, traveling with my mother to Hue for medical treatment. The train was noisy, the wooden seats were hard. My mother gave up her seat to a stranger, hugging me and sleeping on the floor. I remember the indigo scent on my mother’s shirt, the package of salted plums she put in my hand, the moonlight leaning in through the window. Those were poor but heartbreakingly beautiful lights.

Then, when I grew up, I took the Thong Nhat train to Ho Chi Minh City to study. For two days and one night, I sat on a hard chair, my head resting on my backpack, my legs curled up under the chair. Every time I returned to the city, I brought back many gifts that my mother had carefully wrapped: a bunch of bananas, a jar of dried shrimp, a package of banh tet… All filled with a wordless love.

The train took me through not only a long stretch of land, but also a period of maturity. On those long journeys of my beautiful youth, I learned how to live, how to remember, how to love and how to overcome adversity. Those old trains were poor, slow, and hard, but they were the first classes that taught me many skills to step into life. Between the swaying of the train were lessons of patience, sharing and how to live kindly in the midst of a hurried life.

Therefore, among more modern means of transport, I often choose to take the train to hear that familiar sound again, to give my heart a deep enough void. And when the moon rises, I can quietly remember the poor trains of the past. There, I used to curl up in my mother's arms, used to cry silently on every trip away from home, used to light up my first dream with the cheapest train ticket I could buy.

Perhaps because I have lived through such journeys, I have come to see clearly that life, in the end, is like a night train. People come, people go. Some people only sit for a short distance, then leave. But it is those hasty separations that bring back memories, love, and even regret. And in the brightest moonlit nights, when the moonlight shines through the train window, if the heart is quiet enough, deep enough, it will hear the gentlest movements of this life.

Dieu Huong

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa/202508/chuyen-tau-dem-77451d1/