They walked slowly, fingers just brushing—Linh in a pale áo dài that caught the breeze like a sail, Hải beside her in a crisp white tunic he had ironed twice that afternoon. The sun was low, casting long shadows along Nguyễn Thái Học Street, where the yellow walls had begun to glow, and the scent of grilled squid and jasmine incense mixed gently in the air. They said very little. They didn’t need to.
A child raced past them chasing a paper ball; an old man tuned a đàn bầu inside a shop. Hải leaned over slightly and whispered, “Em thấy đèn lồng chưa lên đâu.” She smiled and answered, “Chờ trời tối thêm chút nữa.” Wait for the sky to dim a little more.
At the bridge, they paused—her hand now wrapped fully in his. A tour boat drifted below, full of foreigners snapping pictures, but the couple didn’t notice. They were watching the water—watching how it shimmered pink and orange, how their reflections swayed side by side. Later, they would stop for a glass of chè bắp, share a spoon, laugh about nothing at all. But for now, they walked.
Not fast. Not far.
Just enough to feel the hush of Hội An wrap gently around them,
like the soft click of sandals on stone,
like the slow unfolding of something
that didn’t need to be named.