Hanoi is calling you

I

August Afternoon in Saigon

The wind, hot as a handful of embers, blows through the streets, carrying with it the heavy, stifling heat of a long day. The sun blazes down on the pavement, each ray seeming to melt into the gray tiles, touching the rows of weary trees still trying to stretch upward. Somewhere, the sound of the wind, the rustling leaves, and even the silence of the sky and earth together create a strange feeling—a sense of peace, albeit fragile.

People walk more slowly, carefully, as if afraid of stirring the city's memories just emerging from war. Perhaps everyone understands that life here doesn't change easily—despite worries, Saigon still maintains its rhythm, both hurried and tranquil in its own moments. It's still the same Saigon—confident, vibrant, and soulful in the way it has stood resilient through seasons of sun and rain, through waves of upheaval, yet remains as gentle as these summer afternoons, neither flamboyant nor ever losing its unique beauty.

The sunlight drips down on her head, dispersing into tiny flecks, like someone carelessly scattering drops of brightness onto the street. The golden hue of the light threads through the leaves, painting soft outlines that settle lightly onto Jihye's small hands.

Her fountain pen rests quietly in her hand, leaking black ink onto the paper—when it began, she doesn't know. The ink smudges, like gentle raindrops on a late afternoon.

Jihye places the pen down, her hand brushing the paper as if trying to hold onto the breath of an unfinished verse. She doesn't know how many times she has sat here, intending to write a poem. Yet every time, the words seem to play hide and seek, hiding somewhere, leaving only the vast white space of the page.

Looking at the long ink line, Jihye thinks that sometimes feelings are stubborn too, hiding just like that.

The cup of hot tea on the table has long cooled, its final warmth fading into the air. Jihye lifts the now-cold cup, brings it to her lips, trying to recapture the fragrance of fresh tea leaves. But then she puts it down, no longer wanting to drink, and gets up to step out of her room.

The paper rustles behind her, a blank sheet floats up, like a little bird swept away by the wind, with no sense of where it might land—perhaps somewhere far, unreachable. Or perhaps it's drifting back to some distant memory, where Jihye and Haerin met.

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Jihye was born in Yen Phu, Hanoi.

Her full name is Mo Jihye, lovingly given by her father to mean agility and intelligence.

Both of her parents work in small government positions.

At the age of ten, Jihye began writing poetry, her hands seemingly touched by a muse. She writes poetry as if weaving dreams, reciting verses with the innocence of a child, yet still managing to instill a quiet melancholy in others.

"The autumn has arrived – autumn has arrived
With faded dreams, weaving golden leaves"

Moved as the gentle breezes bring in the scent of autumn, Jihye softly hums Xuan Dieu's verse.

Jihye loves Hanoi with a heartfelt passion as genuine and intense as the fragrance of milkwood pine flowers blooming with each step.

Jihye also loves and cherishes many other things that can't be counted—small people, things, and scenes—all that make up a large Hanoi.

And on a yellow autumn day, Jihye finds yet another reason to love this place even more.

In early 1970s Hanoi, the traces of French influence linger, like a modern girl adorned in a romantic, distant gown. The French had come, and then gone, but the sweet beauty they left behind still remains, gently pervading every corner, every old house. This allows the people of Hanoi to blend a touch of openness while still preserving the grace and traditional charm of ages past.