Written in a heavy afternoon of self-reflection.

Standing by a bank of the Red River during its dry season, the water drifting silently, the other side of the city lies still, shrouded in a hazy, murky fog. The clearest sight is the two towering buildings of Vietcombank and BIDV. No crowds jostling, no exhaust fumes, no blaring horns—just houses, tall and short, resting quietly in the mist.

From the vantage point of Bồ Đề Temple, everything feels impossibly out of reach. Over there is Chương Dương Bridge, a mass of iron pierced with deliberate, intricate holes. People cram onto it, eager to plunge into that silent mass of a city. To argue, to clash, to make noise, to stir up chaos, and to chase a million things—only to leave, not always lighter or happier.

An Illusion of Calm

But at least that side of the city seems peaceful. Or maybe its surface is wrapped so perfectly it creates that illusion.

Behind the girl, the temple echoes with clamor. The sounds of drums, music, gongs, and chanting from spirit possession rituals spill out, soothing souls battered by life within that silent shell across the river. Outside the temple gates, the scene is chaotic—makeshift stalls, people swapping stories. Some crude, some loud, some trembling with emotion.

She sighs.

A long, heavy sigh…