Chapter 11: Between the Silence and the Light
781 Words
The monsoon rains returned to Ho Chi Minh City like a forgotten memory. Streets shimmered with puddles that mirrored neon signs, and the rhythmic drumming of water against rooftops created a symphony of solitude that Selina knew by heart.
The house stood tall—stronger than ever, perhaps even prouder than she had imagined. And yet, inside her, things had shifted. The stillness no longer offered clarity. It echoed.
Damien had been gone for six weeks.
In that time, Selina had filled her days with purpose: finalizing permits, leading community design workshops, completing a children’s reading room in the east wing, curating an exhibition titled “Spaces Between.” The house thrived under her care. People came, lingered, donated, smiled.
But every night, she returned to the studio and stood beneath the skylight they’d fought to preserve. The moonlight would pour in gently, as if trying not to disturb her.
And still—she waited.
She would never admit that aloud.
It wasn’t loneliness that kept her awake, but a sense of dissonance—like music missing a final note.
One evening, she hosted an artist talk. Her guest was a sculptor from Hue, whose work with broken porcelain captivated the room. Selina introduced her, spoke eloquently, answered questions, smiled graciously.
Then she retreated to the garden.
She sat on the bench beneath the banyan tree—the one she and Damien had once measured together. Rain clung to the air like breath, and she whispered aloud:
“Did we finish this too soon?”
A voice behind her answered.
“Or maybe we haven’t even begun.”
It was her mother.
Uyen had never been to the house before. She stood in the glow of the garden lamps, wearing a long beige coat that seemed to defy the humidity.
Selina stood. “You came.”
“I wanted to see what you gave up everything for.”
Uyen walked slowly, observing the textures of the house, the worn path, the warm windows. “I thought you left to escape us. Now I see… you were building something none of us ever gave you: a home.”
Selina sat back down. “I thought you’d be disappointed.”
“I was,” Uyen admitted. “But not in you. In myself. For not seeing what you needed.”
They sat in silence.
Then Uyen reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle.
“These were your father’s.”
Sketches. Dozens of them. Architectural fantasies. Designs he never built. Selina touched them like artifacts of a language she was just learning to read.
“He drew until he stopped believing it would matter,” Uyen whispered. “You… never stopped.”
Selina’s throat tightened. “I was always terrified I’d become him.”
“You didn’t. You became you.”
Later that week, Selina received an invitation from an old university colleague: a panel discussion in Singapore on urban revival and female-led design. She declined at first. Then changed her mind.
When she arrived at the venue—a sleek auditorium bathed in concrete and glass—she was the only speaker who had dirt under her nails and jasmine petals stuck in her satchel.
She spoke of homes, not buildings. Of memory, not marble.
And when the applause ended, someone handed her a note.
“Courage isn’t always leaving. Sometimes it’s staying. But other times, it’s buying a ticket last minute and arriving without a map. – D.”
Her heart skipped.
She returned home to find a package at her door.
Inside was a film canister. 35mm. Handwritten label: The House Before.
Selina borrowed an old projector from the university and played it on the studio wall. Grainy footage filled the space: Damien recording their early days. Cracked walls. Her voice. Laughter. Chalk drawings. A dance in the rain neither of them remembered recording.
She didn’t cry. But she did sit on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, and watched the reel twice.
Then she opened her laptop.
And booked a flight.
She left the house in the hands of her team—young women she had mentored, now confident in their own designs.
She locked the door with both gratitude and grace.
Then she left a note on the inside wall by the kitchen—one that only Damien would ever find:
“The light still comes through the broken places. I’m bringing the bench sketch.”
On the plane, she slept dreamlessly.
But as they landed in Paris, she felt something settle in her chest—not like returning, not like beginning, but like breathing.
She was no longer running.
She was arriving.
To be continued...
- Writer
