On a sweltering summer night, in a small spicy noodle shop, a young man had fallen asleep at the counter. He was rather slim, about 1.75 meters tall, eyes tightly shut, messy sun-bleached hair sticking together, freckles scattered across his cheeks. His clothes were untidy, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Beside him lay notebooks, crumpled bills, and receipts piled into a mess, together with an old laptop whose broken hinge forced it to lean against a stack of books. Its glowing screen was still playing a live-streamed lecture.
To outsiders, it might seem as if the shop was empty, the clerk too bored and tired to stay awake. But in truth, the restaurant hadn't even opened that day. Why was the young man sleeping there? Because not long ago, he had been evicted from his rented room, and now he was temporarily allowed to stay in the shop where he worked part-time.
Though he looked young—almost like a sleeping puppy with that freckled face—he was in fact a final-year student, struggling to survive the last stretch of university life. Perhaps that was why, even when thrown out in the middle of the night, he still carried his homework with him.
The shop was closed tight, yet the outside noise seeped in—the whirring fan, the dripping faucet in the sink—lulling him deeper into drowsiness. Tonight was, perhaps, a strangely peaceful night.
His phone screen, however, told another story: 25 missed calls from his mother. Back home in the countryside, she sold vegetables at the local market just to send money for his education. Life was never easy for their family. He had a younger brother who chose to study education—no tuition fees, high chance of employment—while he, the elder son, stubbornly rejected offers from the Police Academy and the Pedagogical University. Instead, chasing dreams of luxury and freedom, he insisted on enrolling in some obscure economics university.
"Stubborn boy, never once thinks of his mother," he could still hear the criticisms echoing in his mind, even in dreams.
From childhood, he despised poverty, yearning for a new life. But poverty clung to him like a curse. In high school, he studied hard in a specialized biology class. Outsiders thought he was brilliant. He was good, yet the harder he tried, the more his results slipped. Sometimes, he wondered if he had truly been cursed.
When he dreamed of studying abroad, his mother sold the family's gold to pay for IELTS lessons. By his final year, he had taken the test three times—each time scoring 6.0. Not bad, but never enough. He needed at least 6.5, and each failure gnawed at his confidence.
It wasn't the first time. Back in grade 9, he misread an exam question and only won third prize, shocking himself. In grade 10, he scraped into the specialized school with the lowest passing score. In grade 12, he spent nearly ten million dong chasing certifications, only to repeat the same 6.0 score. Always trying, always failing. Was he cursed? Or simply… wrong about himself?
The dream of studying abroad collapsed. He buried himself in endless preparation, only to fail medical school—though truthfully, he didn't want that life anyway. He sought freedom, not a fixed profession. That was how he ended up in this economic university, hopping between part-time jobs, cheap rented rooms, constantly evicted. Could someone like him really keep up with the brutal pace of the city?
This time, he had been forced out near midnight. His landlady had found someone willing to pay triple the rent. He owed three months' rent already, so he had no choice but to pack up and leave that very night. Carrying his bags through the dark streets, he felt like a homeless wanderer. Perhaps he truly was cursed. That was the only explanation that eased his shame—the shame of being called a "gifted biology student" once destined to be a doctor, now nothing more than a failed economics student with no home, no money, and no dreams.
His phone buzzed again. He opened his eyes and finally called back.
"Hello? Nam, is that you? I've been calling since noon—why didn't you pick up?" his mother's voice trembled with worry.
He couldn't tell her the truth. "I was busy with homework, Mom. What's the matter?"
"Your younger brother—he's getting married. I wanted to share the good news, so you can plan to come home for the wedding."
"I see… Congratulations. But it's already past midnight, Mom. Please go to sleep."
"All right. Good night, my son. And listen—don't overwork yourself. If you run out of money, tell me. Don't hide it."
"…Yes, Mom. I know."
The call ended. Silence filled the noodle shop. He stared at the ceiling. "My brother's getting married…" They were never close, but at this moment, he felt proud of him. Once, he had been the family's pride. Now, he had fallen so far behind.
Two years of gap years for IELTS classes, wasted time and money, left him with nothing but three identical certificates and an emptiness in his chest. He had once dreamed of traveling the world, but tonight, all he felt was failure.
As he sat lost in thought, suddenly—
BANG.
A loud noise shook the front door.
"Help me! Please, open the door!" a weak voice pleaded outside.
Startled, he rushed to unlock the shutter. A tall figure stumbled in, body covered in bruises, neck marked with lipstick stains, collapsing to the floor.
Nam knelt beside him, shaking his shoulders. "Hey! Are you all right?"
The stranger turned slightly, face half-lit by the glow of the old laptop. His skin burned with fever. Nam froze.
"…Why does he look so familiar?"
And in that moment, forgotten memories from earlier that day flickered back into his mind—blurred at first, then painfully clear.