The car stopped.
Bui Yen Xuyen released my hand almost instantly.
That tiny movement answered the question he had asked only seconds earlier.
“Maybe we don’t have to divorce.”
I looked through the rain-streaked window.
Lac Uyen Khanh stood in front of the headlights, soaked from head to toe.
She looked pale and frightened.
The moment she saw Bui Yen Xuyen open the door, tears appeared in her eyes.
“Yen Xuyen…”
He got out without hesitation.
I remained in the back seat.
Through the glass, I watched him remove his coat with his uninjured hand and place it around her shoulders.
Five minutes earlier, he had offered to take me somewhere because it was raining.
Now he was standing in that same rain protecting another woman.
Strangely, I felt nothing.
No anger.
No jealousy.
No desire to get out and drag them apart like I once would have.
Only exhaustion.
The driver glanced at me through the mirror.
“Madam…”
“Drive.”
He hesitated.
“But General Bui—”
“He has someone who needs him.”
I looked straight ahead.
“And so do I.”
“Who?”
I smiled faintly.
“Myself.”
The driver started the car.
Outside, Bui Yen Xuyen suddenly turned.
He realized what was happening and stepped toward us.
“Giang Ly!”
But the car had already moved.
For the first time in five years, when he called my name, I didn’t turn around.
At seven the next morning, I was waiting outside the Civil Affairs Department.
Bui Yen Xuyen arrived twenty-three minutes late.
Lac Uyen Khanh wasn’t with him.
His clothes were wrinkled.
His injured hand remained wrapped.
He stopped in front of me.
“You really came.”
I looked at my watch.
“You said eight.”
His expression darkened.
“Uyen Khanh became ill last night.”
I nodded.
He stared at me.
“That is all you’re going to say?”
“What should I say?”
He didn’t answer.
Perhaps he expected sarcasm.
A fight.
An accusation.
For years, hatred had been the strongest thread holding us together.
He betrayed me.
I retaliated.
He protected her.
I refused to leave.
We hurt each other and called that connection.
Now I finally understood something.
The opposite of love wasn’t hatred.
It was indifference.
“Let’s go inside.”
I walked past him.
He caught my arm, then immediately released it.
“Giang Ly.”
I stopped.
“Did you mean what you said last night?”
“Which part?”
“That you don’t want anything.”
“Yes.”
“The apartment?”
“No.”
“The company shares?”
“No.”
“The investment accounts?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“You helped me when I had nothing.”
“I know.”
“You were there when nobody believed in me.”
“I remember.”
“Then why won’t you take what belongs to you?”
I finally looked at him.
“Because every extra thing gives us another reason to meet.”
His face changed.
“I want nothing that requires me to see you again.”
For several seconds, he simply stared.
Then he laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“So that’s how much you hate me?”
“No.”
That answer hurt him more.
“I don’t hate you anymore.”
Forty minutes later, everything was finished.
Five years of marriage ended with signatures, stamps and two certificates.
Outside the building, Bui Yen Xuyen remained beside me.
“What will you do now?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Where will you live?”
“Somewhere else.”
“Will you keep playing?”
My fingers stiffened.
He looked at my right hand.
Two years earlier, after the injury, doctors had told me I might never regain the same precision.
I had stopped performing.
Stopped entering music rooms.
Eventually, I stopped touching the instrument at all.
Bui Yen Xuyen had never asked whether I missed it.
Until today.
“I don’t know.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Giang Ly… about your hand—”
“Don’t.”
He fell silent.
An unfamiliar black car stopped beside us.
A gray-haired man stepped out.
The moment he saw me, his expression softened.
“Miss Giang.”
Bui Yen Xuyen frowned.
I recognized the man immediately.
Professor Han.
My former conservatory mentor.
The teacher who once told me I could become one of the finest classical guitarists of my generation if I stopped being afraid of my own talent.
I hadn’t seen him in years.
He looked at my suitcase.
“So you’ve finally made your decision.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Bui Yen Xuyen looked between us.
“What decision?”
Professor Han seemed surprised.
“You didn’t tell your husband?”
“Ex-husband.”
I corrected him calmly.
Professor Han understood.
He handed me an envelope.
“The rehabilitation center in Vienna accepted your case.”
My breathing stopped for a second.
Bui Yen Xuyen stared at me.
“Vienna?”
Professor Han continued.
“The specialist reviewed your scans. He cannot promise a complete recovery, but he believes your hand still has possibilities.”
For the first time that morning, emotion broke through my calm.
“Really?”
He smiled.
“Really.”
I held the envelope carefully.
There was no guarantee.
But there was hope.
And hope was more than I had allowed myself for years.
Bui Yen Xuyen’s voice came from behind me.
“When did you arrange this?”
“Three months ago.”
His face hardened.
“So you were planning to leave me three months ago?”
I turned toward him.
“No.”
I placed the envelope inside my bag.
“I started planning to save myself three months ago.”
I left that afternoon.
Bui Yen Xuyen came to the airport.
I hadn’t invited him.
He stood several meters away while Professor Han helped with my luggage.
When boarding was announced, he finally approached.
“Giang Ly.”
I stopped.
He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things.
In the end, only one came out.
“If your hand recovers… will you come back?”
I looked at him.
“Come back where?”
“To the city.”
I knew that wasn’t what he meant.
So did he.
But I spared both of us the embarrassment.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly.
Then asked:
“And if it doesn’t recover?”
I smiled.
“Then I’ll learn how to live differently.”
That was something the old Giang Ly could never have said.
The old me believed losing music meant losing myself.
Then I believed losing Bui Yen Xuyen would destroy me.
I had been wrong both times.
I walked toward security.
Behind me, he called once.
“Giang Ly.”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I am sorry.”
My eyes burned.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because five years earlier, those words might have changed everything.
Now they changed nothing.
I continued walking.
Six months later, in Vienna, I touched the strings again.
The first notes were imperfect.
My fingers weren’t as fast as before.
Some movements still felt unfamiliar.
But there was sound.
Real sound.
I closed my eyes.
Professor Han stood behind me.
“Again.”
So I played again.
And again.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Until pain stopped being the first thing I associated with music.
Until my hand stopped feeling like evidence of what Bui Yen Xuyen had taken from me.
It became mine again.
One evening, Professor Han entered the practice room carrying his phone.
“You should see this.”
On the screen was a news article from home.
BUI GROUP HEIR CANCELS ENGAGEMENT RUMORS, REMOVES LAC UYEN KHANH FROM FOUNDATION BOARD.
I read the headline once.
Then returned the phone.
“You don’t want to know what happened?”
“No.”
Professor Han smiled.
“Good.”
But that night, another message arrived.
This time from an unknown number.
There was no greeting.
Only an attached photograph.
It showed Bui Yen Xuyen standing outside an old storage facility.
Beside him were several boxes.
One had my name written across the top.
Below the photograph was a message:
“Miss Giang, General Bui discovered these while investigating Lac Uyen Khanh.”
I almost deleted it.
Then the second message appeared.
“The boxes contain your original medical records from two years ago.”
My fingers froze over the screen.
A third message followed.
“The specialist says the injury to your hand was not the only reason you stopped recovering.”
I stared at those words.
Then came the final message.
“Someone interfered with your rehabilitation.”
For the first time in six months, I thought about Lac Uyen Khanh again.
And suddenly, I understood.
My marriage might have ended.
But the truth about what happened to my hand had only just begun.
