Episode 8: THE RETURN
1415 Words
1.
After the Literature Club’s event, Nguyen An became a quiet, familiar name on campus—especially among students who wrote.
Nobody knew him well.
No one pried into his personal life.
But whenever a draft went missing, or a memory faded into obscurity, someone would whisper:
“Maybe An should write it down.”
And he never said no.
He never refused anyone.
He continued doing what he had always done: recording the names that had been forgotten, the stories people thought were too small to matter.
Eventually, there was a phrase shared among small writing circles:
Nguyen An – the Keeper of Words.
But only An himself knew—this title didn’t give him peace.
In fact, it only made him feel lonelier than ever.
2.
One night, An couldn’t write.
All the ideas slipped through his fingers.
Every draft was someone else’s story. U., Lam, Huy, Uyên, Kha—fragments of other people’s lives, long gone.
But what about him?
Who was Nguyen An?
The name others mentioned, the writer others trusted—was he still real?
An stood in front of the mirror in the fourth-floor bathroom. Under the sickly fluorescent light, his reflection looked pale, thin, and tired.
He looked like a ghost that could hold a pen.
And in that moment, fear gripped him.
Fear that he had written about others so much, he had erased himself.
He pulled out his fountain pen and wrote a single line on the foggy mirror, the ink bleeding slightly:
“If I were to disappear, who would write me back?”
3.
The next morning, he received a letter.
No sender.
Typed text.
A faded sheet with slightly burnt edges.
The message was short:
**“You wrote about us.
Now it’s my turn to write about you.”**
Attached was a 9-page manuscript—no title, no character names.
But every detail was painfully familiar:
A quiet student who once lost his voice.
Someone who wrote on the backs of bus tickets.
A boy with an old, wine-colored backpack and a crooked zipper.
A friend named Linh—the only one who read his drafts first.
Each line cut deeper into memories he had locked away.
The most chilling part was the ending:
“If you’re reading this, that means I still exist—even if only on a page.
We will meet again.
At exactly 3:17 a.m.
On the fifth floor.”
4.
The fifth floor had been sealed off long ago.
Since the night its door had “disappeared,” An hadn’t returned.
Neither had anyone else.
To him, that floor was a memory—somewhere between myth and memory.
3:17 a.m.
An stayed awake all night. When his alarm buzzed the third time, he stood up, slipped on a jacket, grabbed a flashlight and his notebook.
He didn’t know if he believed the letter.
But something in him couldn’t resist.
The staircase leading to the fifth floor was quiet, dimly lit.
Each footstep echoed—like breathing in an old attic.
The door to the fifth floor hadn’t vanished.
It was back.
Same old wooden panels.
Same rusted hinges.
Same cold black doorknob.
3:17.
He knocked.
No answer.
He pushed gently—the door creaked open.
5.
The room looked exactly as it had in his memories.
The ceiling fan creaked slowly.
The old wooden desk by the window still carried the faint smell of ink and dust.
But this time, someone was sitting at the center of the room.
A girl, back turned, long hair brushing her shoulders.
White blouse.
Left hand resting on a stack of yellowed paper.
An stepped forward.
She didn’t move.
Then, she spoke:
“An. You finally came back.”
That voice…
Lam’s voice.
But Lam had vanished long ago.
An had written about her—over and over—until her presence blurred into ink and metaphor.
This couldn’t be real.
“Lam… how are you…”
The figure turned around.
And it wasn’t Lam.
Not exactly.
She looked like Lam—only younger. Her eyes sharper. Her posture more deliberate.
And in those eyes—An saw something terrifying.
His own reflection.
“I am who you wrote.
The unfinished version.
The Lam you imagined, then forgot.
I’m not real—but I live inside every edit you made.”
6.
“Who are you?” An took a step back, voice cracking.
The girl didn’t flinch. Her gaze held his like they were two mirrors facing each other.
“I’m the name you kept reshaping.
The story you never dared to finish.
Every time you revised Lam’s memories—cutting out her anger, adding grace to her silences—you made me.
I’m not the real Lam.
I’m the Lam you wanted people to remember.”
An froze.
She was right.
He had smoothed out Lam’s rough edges.
He had removed her tantrums.
He had changed her teacher’s name to something more poetic.
He didn’t document her.
He rewrote her.
“I didn’t mean to lie,” An whispered. “I just… wanted people to care.”
She didn’t move.
But her lips curled into a smile—half understanding, half sorrow.
“You didn’t lie.
You created.
And I don’t blame you for it.
In fact, I exist because you altered the truth.”
An looked down. His hand clenched around his notebook.
“I wrote to remember everyone.
But maybe I’ve only been distorting them.”
She stepped closer.
“It’s time to stop writing about the dead.
Start writing while people are still alive—while you’re still alive.
Otherwise, you’ll forget who you are.”
7.
The room dimmed.
The girl—Lam rewritten—stepped back into the shadows near the window.
She didn’t vanish in a flash.
She faded—like ink smeared by a drop of water.
Stroke by stroke.
Line by line.
Until only the feeling of her presence remained.
An stood still.
He didn’t chase after her.
He knew that if he kept writing, she might return.
But if he wanted to truly move on—he had to let her go.
8.
Three days later, An returned to the Archive Room.
For the first time, he left no draft behind.
Only a small sign, white ink on black board:
**“No more old stories.
Write what you’ve never dared to write.”**
That evening, the inbox overflowed.
Not with clean stories.
But with broken truths.
– A student confessed standing on the edge of the ninth-floor railing one winter night.
– Someone admitted to plagiarizing a winning piece last year—and still feeling sick whenever they see the certificate.
– A girl wrote a letter to an ex she never stopped loving:
“I’m fine now, but I’m no longer who I was.”
An read each one.
He didn’t edit.
Didn’t correct grammar.
Didn’t polish structure.
He just read.
And let them be.
Because for the first time, he understood:
Some truths must be kept raw—because their scars make them real.
9.
That week, Linh knocked on his door.
She handed him an old USB drive.
“What’s on it?” An asked.
“The original draft from Lam. The one she sent the club. Before anyone touched it.”
An paused.
Then nodded.
He plugged it in.
The first line blinked to life on the screen:
“If I vanish from every edited version, please remember I was never perfect.
I was selfish, moody, impatient.
But I was real.
I was Lam—not the Lam you wanted to read about.
But the Lam you once knew.”
An cried.
Not loudly.
Just silently—tears streaming down like ink from an old pen.
For the first time, Lam came back—not through invention, but through unfiltered truth.
10.
A week later, An stood in front of a small classroom.
He brought nothing but the USB.
“We have a scheduled reading today,” he said. “But I’d like you to see this first.”
The projector lit up.
The class went quiet as Lam’s words appeared.
Then An said:
“We’re used to reading polished versions of people.
But from today on, I want us to write—and accept—the unpolished ones too.
Because if we don’t, all of us will only live in someone else’s memory.
Not real. Not whole.”
To Be Continued...
- Writer
