She walked with a practiced sway, nón lá casting a crescent shadow across her face, chin tucked low, eyes scanning the crowd. In her hands, balanced with the skill of years, a wide metal tray—piled high with plastic tiny bags of sweet snacks.
She moved silently in plastic sandals, her steps steady even as motorbikes buzzed past.
“Ăn vặt không em?” Want a snack, little sister?
Her voice was soft but sure, rising only when she caught someone’s eye. A boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve. The seller knelt with ease, lifting a bag of dried mango slices. One quick exchange. A nod. A thank you. She was moving again before the mother could unwrap the change. Tourists glanced but rarely stopped. Some took photos, thinking her tray was quaint. They didn’t know she had walked five wards already. Or that she’d made every rice cracker by hand at dawn. The sun climbed. Her back bent. But the tray stayed balanced—just as it had every day ever since she was a little girl of ten.
And in that long stretch of sidewalk,
beneath the weight of snacks and heat and time,
she carried more than food.
She carried a rhythm.
A living.
A story in motion.