On Thursday morning, I submitted my resignation.

The director stared at the paper for a long time.

“Phuong Nhuoc, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Does Captain Chu know?”

I shook my head.

“He doesn’t need to.”

By noon, I had packed almost everything.

There wasn’t much that truly belonged to me.

A few clothes.

Several books.

An An’s photographs.

His little blue sweater.

And the wooden whistle he once proudly told everyone his father had given him.

Actually, I had bought it.

Chu Pho Xuyen had forgotten An An’s birthday that year.

I placed the whistle beside my son’s photograph and closed the suitcase.

Saturday morning.

My train left at 10:20.

I had less than three hours before leaving the military compound forever.

Just as I finished cleaning the empty bedroom, someone knocked.

Co Tran stood outside.

Canh Canh was beside her, holding the imported doll Chu Pho Xuyen had bought.

Co Tran looked past me into the nearly empty house.

“You’re moving?”

“Yes.”

Her expression changed slightly.

“Does Pho Xuyen know?”

“No.”

She hesitated, then lowered her voice.

“Phuong Nhuoc, don’t misunderstand us. Pho Xuyen only helps me because my husband died and Canh Canh has no father.”

I looked at her quietly.

“Then take good care of him.”

She froze.

I closed the door.

There was nothing left to explain.

At nine forty, I carried my suitcase and An An’s urn out of the house.

For the last time, I looked back at the place where my son had learned to walk.

Where he had waited by the window whenever his father returned from training.

Where he had spent his final night asking me:

“Mom, will Dad come tomorrow?”

I had lied.

I told him yes.

I would regret that lie for the rest of my life.

At the station, the train whistle sounded.

I boarded without looking back.

Meanwhile, Chu Pho Xuyen returned home carrying medicine.

He had finally remembered his promise to take An An to the clinic.

“Phuong Nhuoc?”

No answer.

“An An?”

Silence.

He opened the bedroom.

Empty.

The wardrobe had been cleared.

An An’s schoolbag was gone.

So were his clothes.

Only one thing remained on the table.

A key.

Chu Pho Xuyen frowned.

He called me.

My phone was already switched off.

Annoyed, he went straight to the military clinic.

“Where is my son?”

The nurse at the desk looked up.

Then her face changed.

“Captain Chu…”

“Is An An still receiving treatment?”

The nurse stared at him as though she had misheard.

“You don’t know?”

His expression hardened.

“Know what?”

Nobody answered.

Finally, the doctor who had treated An An came out.

When he saw Chu Pho Xuyen, his eyes immediately filled with anger.

“Where were you that night?”

Chu Pho Xuyen froze.

“What night?”

“The night your wife called you eleven times.”

His face slowly lost color.

“She said it was only a fever.”

The doctor stared at him.

“Only a fever?”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a medical record.

“Your son was critically ill.”

Chu Pho Xuyen’s fingers trembled.

“No.”

“He kept asking whether his father was coming.”

“No…”

“He waited until the very end.”

The medical file slipped from Chu Pho Xuyen’s hand.

Pages scattered across the floor.

His eyes landed on one line.

Date of death.

Three days before he returned home.

The corridor suddenly became terrifyingly quiet.

Chu Pho Xuyen staggered backward.

Then he remembered.

The photograph in my arms.

The silent house.

The divorce paper he signed without reading.

The toy car.

My strange calmness.

And his own words.

Wait until An An recovers.

His face turned completely white.

He ran.

He ran all the way to the political commissar’s office.

“Where is Phuong Nhuoc?”

The political commissar slowly raised his head.

“You’re asking now?”

“Where is my wife?”

“She isn’t your wife anymore.”

A stamped document was placed in front of him.

Divorce approved.

Chu Pho Xuyen stared at his own signature.

His knees nearly gave way.

“When did she submit this?”

“Three days ago.”

“And An An?”

The political commissar closed his eyes.

“You didn’t even attend your son’s funeral.”

Chu Pho Xuyen stumbled out of the building like a madman.

He searched the house.

The cemetery.

The station.

Then he finally learned that I had bought a train ticket home.

At 10:18, he reached the platform.

The train was already moving.

He ran beside it, shouting my name.

“PHUONG NHUOC!”

Inside the carriage, I heard him.

My fingers tightened around An An’s urn.

But I didn’t turn around.

“PHUONG NHUOC! STOP!”

The train accelerated.

His figure became smaller behind the window.

Then disappeared.

For the first time in ten years, I chose not to wait for him.

But what I didn’t know was that after returning to the cemetery, Chu Pho Xuyen found something among the ashes beside An An’s grave.

A tiny metal wheel from the toy car.

And beneath it, protected inside a half-burned envelope, was the last letter An An had written to his father.

Chu Pho Xuyen opened it with shaking hands.

He read only the first sentence before collapsing to his knees.

Because An An had known, long before I did, exactly where his father was on the night he died.