She walked slowly along the Thu Bồn River, her áo dài trailing just above the cobbled stones—ivory silk with lotus embroidery blooming along the hem, the fabric catching the breeze like a whispered story.
She wasn’t local. That was clear in her shoes—too new, her earrings—too Western, her gaze—full of soft astonishment.
But she wore the dress like she’d always known how.
Her dark hair was pinned in a gentle bun. Her hands held a small paper lantern, unlit. Her smile held something more: reverence, perhaps. Or quiet joy.
A vendor called to her—“Đẹp quá, cô ơi! Pretty lady!”—and she laughed, bowing lightly, her cheeks flushing.
Couples posed around her. Cameras clicked. But she wasn’t posing—she was simply moving, slowly, through light that turned the yellow walls gold and the river pink.
Locals watched. One old woman selling grilled corn murmured to herself, “Giống con gái Huế xưa quá.”
She looks like the girls from Huế, long ago.
And maybe for a moment she did—
a bridge between then and now,
foreign and familiar,
beauty worn with respect, not performance.
At twilight, she lit the lantern.
Bent down. Let it float gently onto the river.
And as it drifted away,
she stood in silk and shadow,
still glowing,
as if Hội An had lent her part of its soul
just for the night.