Chú Hòa swung his leg over the frame of his cyclo, adjusted his cap, and rolled slowly onto Trần Phú Street. The sun was beginning its descent, soft gold splashed across the ochre walls. Lanterns blinked to life one by one. Tourists emerged like clockwork from cafés and tailor shops.
He pedaled deliberately—slow but not desperate. The cyclo creaked under his weight. His knees ached. He ignored them. Two Japanese girls pointed, laughed, but waved him on. A Western couple walked with a guide and didn’t even glance. He kept going.
“Xe xích lô không em?” he asked gently toward a shy Vietnamese student with a sketchpad. She smiled politely, shook her head.
He turned toward the river road, where the big hotels were. That was where the luck came—if it came at all.
The cyclo was old—paint peeling, a small Buddha pendant swinging from the brake lever. His father had driven one before him. Now the old men were mostly gone. Grab bikes, taxis, electric shuttles. But he stayed. He liked the slowness. Liked the rhythm.
At 4:52, a woman stepped off a tour bus, adjusting her sunglasses.
She looked tired. Curious.
He slowed near her.
Smiled.
“City tour, madam? Only slow, only beauty.”
She hesitated. Then nodded.
He straightened up, heart calm, legs burning.
And off they rolled—
past paper lanterns, through alleys of incense and laughter—
Hội An unfolding slowly
from the seat of a creaking cyclo.