This novel is inspired by echoes of the past, but all events are purely fictional. Reader discretion is advised.
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"9AM. There will be a bombing."
But that was for nine o'clock. Right now, it was only eight-thirty on a peaceful Sunday morning.
Beneath the vaulted ceiling of an old cathedral in the heart of Saigon, a hundred worshippers were gathered for Mass. Gentlemen in pressed suits, ladies in elegant Áo Dài or Western-style skirts, all properly dressed, all solemn. Their hands moved in unison as they made the sign of the cross. Their lips mouthed hymns of praise to the Almighty. But their eyes—ah, their eyes—secretly followed the basket boy.
The basket boy was the one tasked with walking the aisles, collecting offerings from the faithful. Part of the money would go toward maintaining church operations; the rest would be set aside for the poor. Naturally, the role was reserved for someone trustworthy and well-loved by the congregation.
But here, in this particular church on Sunday mornings, that honor was given to a young man—tall, strong, and strikingly fair-skinned, almost foreign in appearance. His hair was slicked back with a glossy pomade, revealing a high, intelligent forehead. It was as if God Himself had taken extra care with this one—granting him a sculpted nose, and a pair of lips that curled ever so slightly, caught somewhere between a smile and a sneer.
"Tonight. I'll see you, Dung Tây,"
a well-dressed gentleman murmured as the basket boy reached his row.
Just behind him, a woman in her fifties nodded politely.
"Good morning, Mr. Dung Tây."
At the sound of his name, the basket boy smiled in return, then cast a fleeting glance at the young lady sitting beside her. The girl, caught in the moment, glanced back—eyes downturned, face flushed.
It went on like that all the way down the aisle. Wherever Dung Tây passed, people found a way to reach out: a greeting, a glance, a subtle signal. Each one meant something.
The basket filled up fast. Maybe people were generous or maybe they just knew who to talk to if they needed something done.
When the offering was done, Dung Tây returned to his seat. He always chose a discreet spot behind the pew reserved for the Liễu family. They were old money in Saigon—famous for their wealth, their clubs, and how trouble never seemed to find them. It only followed in their wake.
Every Sunday, the core trio showed up: Mr. Hai Liễu, his wife, andtheir third daughter, Tư (a traditional Southern Vietnamese way to address the third-born daughter). Occasionally, their eldest son—Hai—and their second daughter, Ba, join them as well.
"Go in peace," intoned the priest.
The blessing drifted through the church like a quiet ripple. Maybe some of them had a feeling that something was about to happen. Or maybe, in a city like Saigon during wartime, you simply got used to the thought that someone here—maybe even yourself—might not live to see next Sunday.
Mass ended.
The faithful filtered out, gathering in small groups to chat, laugh, gossip. Their faces were bright, their steps were slow. And death, quiet and uninvited, inched one step closer.
"Excuse me, sir…" A timid young woman approached Dung Tây.
He turned to her with a smile. She was slim, soft-featured, gentle but nothing about her face stood out enough to make anyone remember it. She wore a knee-length, sky-blue dress. The design was elegant, but the fabric had clearly worn thin over time. Her pale complexion added to the impression: this was someone trying to ask for help—quietly, maybe even desperately.
"Sir Dung…"
The poor girl didn't get the chance to finish. She fell silent the moment Mr. Hai Liễu's daughter appeared.
"Dung, who's this?"
Sensing trouble, the girl mumbled an apology and quickly turned away.
"Hey, miss—" Dung called after her, still confused about what had just happened.
"What are you calling her for? You're always throwing those bedroom eyes at every girl you see." Miss Tư pulled him back, hugging his arm tight.
"But none of them get to hold my arm like you do, Miss Tư."
"Oh, please. Guys and girls hang off each other all the time these days. What's the big deal?" She let go, huffing like she was offended but not enough to leave.
Dung sighed dramatically. "Oh, poor me! People call me Dung Tây—a Western man, but in reality, I'm a hundred percent Dung 'Ta'—as local as they come! So whenever a girl holds my hand, I might think she's trying to flirt with me." He nudged Tư playfully with his elbow.
They were still caught in their usual back-and-forth when a little ice cream peddler suddenly interrupts them. Balanced on her head was a large tray stacked high with waffle cones. In her hand, she carried a metal ice cream tin with a clear lid. Her small mouth, sweet as syrup, chirped out her pitch:
"Sis, buy some ice cream to cool off! Please help me out, I haven't sold a thing all morning…"
But when she noticed Dung's frown, the girl quickly shut her mouth and vanished into the crowd.
"It's just ice cream! What, are you really not going to buy me one?" Tư turned to him, mock-offended.
"Oh, my lady! If you want ice cream, I'll take you to a proper restaurant. No way I'd let you eat something off the street. What if something happened to you? How would I ever make it right? And I told you, don't go mixing with that street-corner crowd..."
"Tư! Are you out of your mind? Hanging off that boy like that in public?"
Madam Liễu, the wife of Mr. Liễu, hissed through clenched teeth. Her glare locked onto her daughter's fingers still wrapped around Dung's arm.
"Let go of him!" She yanked her daughter toward her with sharp authority.
"What are you doing, Ma? I'm grown, why are you pulling and yelling at me like I'm a kid?"
"If I don't speak up now, you'll end up knocked up by that... that street boy!"
Madam Liễu shot a scathing glance at Dung.
Dung only furrowed his brow at Madam Liễu's words, showing no trace of anger, for he knew all too well where someone like him stood in this world.
"Hương!"
Mr. Liễu's voice cut through the tension as he appeared, calling his wife by name—a rare thing, and never a good sign.
Tall and broad-shouldered, every inch a man of wealth and status, Mr.Liễu's presence made Madam Liễu swallow her fury. She backed off with a bitter pout:
"Keep spoiling her, and you'll see how she turns out."
With that, she stormed off toward the parked car. Mr. Liễu let out a weary sigh and turned to his daughter.
"I know what I'm doing, Dad! You have to trust me!" Mss Tư jumped in before her dad could speak. "Flirting is flirting, love is love, and marriage is marriage. It's all clear-cut, right?"
Mr.Liễu looked at his daughter, her arm still looped around Dung's like she belonged there, and he let out another sigh.
"You girls... Get in the car. Your mom's waiting."
"You go ahead, Dad. I've still got plans this morning."
"Raising daughters is a thankless job," he muttered, tapping her lightly on the head before walking off.
"I love you most in the world, Dad!"
Mss Tư called after him, beaming. But Mr. Liễu suddenly stopped, turned, and pointed at Dung.
"You better behave, boy."
"Yes, sir! I'll escort Miss Tư to the car in a bit."
"Dung, I told you, we are going out this morning. Non-negotiable!"
Without another word, Miss Tư turned on her heel and marched off like she expected the world to follow.
"Damn it," Dung muttered, kicking a pebble across the ground as he clenched his teeth and chased after the young lady.
"Miss Tư, if you keep this up, your mom's gonna hate me for life."
"Who cares if she likes you? I like you, and that's enough." Miss Tư shot back.
"So you admit you like me, huh?"
She turned her head with a huff, pretending not to answer.
Dung went on, "Oh my lady, just get in the car for now, keep things smooth. I'll come pick you up in a bit and we'll go out, deal?"
Miss Tư didn't say yes, but her footsteps said she'd cooled off. They'd only taken a few steps beforea soda peddler stepped into their path.
"Hey sir..."
"No, not buying. Not now."
Dung's face hardened. He gave the soda peddler a sharp signal—stay quiet—then urged Miss Tư to move along ahead. The peddler looked like he was burning up inside. As soon as Dung stepped back toward him, he leaned in and whispered a few quick words, then bolted like a man chased by ghosts.
Dung glanced at his wristwatch, face going pale. He scanned the churchyardm, too many people were still milling around.
"Damn it, what peace?!" Dung cursed under his breath, then took off in long strides toward the Liễu family car, doing his best to keep his cool.
He opened the car door, ready to shamelessly ask for a seat.
"Where's Tư?"
Madam Liễu snapped before Dung could say a word. That was when he realized: the stubborn girl still wasn't back.
"She's just talking to a friend. She asked me to let you know she'll come later," Dung said quickly, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, just enough to catch Madam Liễu's trained eye.
"Where is she? Bring her back here, now!" she shouted.
"Please, sir, ma'am, you go ahead. I'll find Miss Tư and bring her home safely," Dung offered, eyes darting back to his watch.
Mr. Liễu had noticed the growing presence of police nearby.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Find her, go get her now!" Madam Liễu was panicking, eyes flying from her husband to Dung.
"Sir, ma'am, you need to leave, right now. Get away from here."
Dung's voice was calm, but his eyes flashed urgency.
"You bring my daughter back to me. No matter what."
Mr. Liễu gave the order, then signaled the driver to pull away.
As for Dung, he ran straight back into the crowd, scanning frantically for the precious daughter of the Saigon tycoon.
His eyes kept darting down to his wristwatch.
"Damn it. Damn it."
The pressure made the curse slip from Dung's lips without thought. He pushed through bodies, ducking instincts and panic both, until someone slammed into him. Dung hit the ground hard, but caught a glimpse of the man who ran into him. There was something skittish in the guy's movements—eyes darting, posture off.
"Could it be this guy?" Dung kept his eyes on him. The way that long coat hung, It could easily be hiding something.
"Nine-thirty. There'll be a suicide bombing here." Dung remembered the soda peddler's whisper.
"Damn it!"
Dung scrambled to his feet, trying to make his way out of the crowd.
But just then, he caught sight of her—Miss Tư, standing beside the little ice cream peddler.
Three minutes left.
Dung could've left her there, should've.
But instead, he stayed, damn him.
"Get out of here—now!"
He grabbed Miss Tư and the little girl, pulling them both with him.
"My tray, my cones!" the girl protested.
"I'm not going," Miss Tư snapped, yanking her arm.
Their voices were starting to draw attention. Dung's brow tightened. This wasn't the time to stir up the crowd, not with the bomber still somewhere inside it. He gritted his teeth and hissed at Miss Tư:
"Shut up. If you don't want to die, then move!"
His voice was cold, sharp—enough to make her fall silent. and followed.
"Dung, wait for me!" the ice cream girl cried from behind.
Then came the sound of a stumble, the crash of metal hitting the ground. Dung turned just in time to see the girl picking up the scattered pieces of her livelihood.
Less than a minute left.
"Run!"
Dung let go of Miss Tư's hand and shoved her forward. Then he turned, racing back toward the little ice cream peddler.
He moved so fast, even he couldn't stop himself, acting on pure instinct. Then he scooped the little girl into his arms and bolted.
If this was where it ended, at least Dung'd die with courage, with kindness and maybe, just maybe, enough to earn his way into heaven.
9:30. The bomb went off.
Who lived, who didn't—that was Heaven's call.