By Cao Hùng

From the dirt road leading straight to the riverbank, Cai Ban hamlet in the mornings often smelled of straw smoke and receding water. The tide from the night before left dark streaks of mud, scattered with the prints of cats and chickens. On the river, a few merchant boats drifted lazily through the thinning mist, their engines coughing in a familiar rhythm. People in the hamlet liked to say: poor as we are, if you still hear boat engines in the morning, you're still alive — if engines run, there's still a meal to be had.

Hanh lived at the end of the hamlet, in a house jutting over a narrow canal, its eucalyptus posts thinly coated with moss. Since her parents died, she had grown used to the sound of water splashing beneath the floor each night, the damp winds of July, and standing alone on the porch counting raindrops. She finished seventh grade; words stayed in her head like dust motes in sunlight — hovering, then dissolving. For a time, Hanh followed others to the town to work at a rice shop, scrubbing, washing pots, carrying trays until her back was soaked. Then she fell in love with a mason working at a nearby construction site, his eyes smiling gently like a moonless night in the village. Such a smile in the Mekong Delta might not be worth a cup of rice wine — but it was enough to throw a heart off beat.

The mason said, "When I save enough, I'll take you home."

Hanh believed him. Perhaps people with little schooling trust easily, or perhaps flood season softens hearts like soaked fields. When Hanh told him she was pregnant, he left for another province, leaving behind a pair of worn plastic sandals and a promise yellowed like an old calendar page. Hanh did not cry much. In Cai Ban, the poor know tears are a waste of water. She cradled her belly and kept working, gathering coins the way one scoops tiny fish from a ditch.

Her daughter was born at noon, sunlight pouring like honey. Hanh named her My — it sounded like a small dream. Tu, the clinic nurse, said it was a nice name; what mattered was having rice and milk. Hanh nodded, looking at the newborn's flushed skin, hands no bigger than half a chili pepper, nails clear like newly settled silt. At night, the river breathed evenly. Hanh listened to her baby's piercing cries under the oil lamp, her own heart beating like oars striking water.

Hanh never learned to ride a motorbike. In the hamlet, many women didn't — they either walked or hired motorcycle taxis. After giving birth, her body felt like a withered gourd; every movement creaked. She cleaned houses for wealthier families along the road, sometimes mopping floors at drinking shops in town. The owners said she was gentle, her hands worked like machines. Hanh only smiled. "As long as I can buy milk."

My grew up, hair fine as cotton threads, eyes dark as the first drops of coffee from a filter. She crawled on the wooden floor, poking her hands into the canal to touch fish. Afraid, Hanh tied a thin string around her ankle. She remembered her mother's words: children in river regions die by water — it's common. Poverty on land starves; poverty on water drowns. Hanh worried the way women who have lost things do.

When My reached school age, she had to cross the fields to the school on the other side. Hanh asked Tam, the motorcycle taxi driver at the head of the hamlet, to take her. Tam was medium-built, broad-backed, sun-darkened, grinning with yellowed teeth. He'd ferried the hamlet's children for years, riding as if he knew every pothole by heart.

"I love kids," he said.

Hanh thanked him again and again. Each morning, the old Dream bike stopped at the gate. My climbed on, hugging her backpack. Hanh watched her disappear behind the mangrove trees, the engine fading, her heart lightened a little.

Those years were relentlessly hard. During the dry season, saltwater crept inland, killing the garden. During the rains, floodwater rose beneath the house; fish were plentiful, yet food was scarce. Hanh worked from dawn to night. Still, every evening she sat her daughter on the porch, combed her hair fifteen times, and braided it neatly. No matter how poor, she wanted My to grow up clean, straight — not bent like her mother's fate.

My studied well. Teachers praised her handwriting, her math. Hanh felt like crying with joy. But daughters grow like flowers in the wind. By middle and high school, My learned to look in mirrors, dab on lipstick, trade her plain white uniform for blouses with soft frills. One day Hanh found a new shirt in her bag.

"Where did you get this?"

"I saved my breakfast money," My said.

Hanh nodded, didn't ask more. She feared that digging deeper would uncover darkness she lacked words to name.

My often came home late — group study, helping friends at shops. Hanh warned her: "Girls shouldn't stay out late."

"Yes, Mum."

That same year, Tam still came every morning, still started his engine at the gate. Hanh told him to ride slowly on slippery roads. He agreed, revved the bike.

One morning before dawn, My fainted in the bathroom. Hanh carried her on passing motorbikes to the clinic, then the hospital. A young doctor spoke softly: the girl was pregnant. It felt as if a stone dropped into Hanh's chest. Everything went still, like stagnant water. My bit her lip until it bled. Only when Hanh promised not to beat her, not to throw her out, did My shakily write on a piece of paper:

"Tam, the motorcycle taxi driver."

That afternoon, clouds pressed low. Hanh ran to the ferry dock looking for him. People said he'd left — probably for Saigon. They spoke lightly, as if talking about rain washing someone else's roof. Hanh stood in the wind, the river tasting bitter-salty. A neighbour held her hand.

"Take care of the child first."

Hanh's tears had long since dried.

My gave birth to a daughter — small as a green plum, bluish skin, a cry as soft as a kitten's. Holding her granddaughter, Hanh smelled newborn skin and felt pain like a blade.

"What's her name?"

"An," Hanh said. "I only wish her life will be peaceful."

In this hamlet, naming a child was like making a prayer.

My became a factory worker in an industrial zone. Each morning she left An with Hanh; each night she returned collapsed like a drained banana stalk. Hanh stayed home caring for An, sewing for hire to earn rice. Rent, milk, medicine weighed on her shoulders like old fertilizer sacks. People said selling online was easy. Hanh learned to open a page, to call out — like learning letters all over again.

At night, when An slept, Hanh propped up her phone and sat straight. A bare bulb lit her sun-darkened face. She started livestreaming, her voice trembling.

"Brothers and sisters, I'm selling children's clothes."

At first, no one watched. In the corner of the screen was a tiny eye — sometimes zero, sometimes one. Seeing "1" made her happy, like a good fishing season.

"If you're watching, please tap a heart."

The screen stayed silent.

But Hanh persisted. She only knew how not to give up.

An grew, babbling "Grandma." Once, when An had a fever, Hanh livestreamed while watching the hammock. Her voice steadied; she told small stories. The eye flickered — one, two, then zero. Hanh still believed someone somewhere was listening, the way one believes in the smell of kitchen smoke at day's end.

The drought worsened. Fewer boats passed. My's shifts were cut. Hanh livestreamed more, her voice hoarse. She learned to hang clothes on hooks, measure them close to the camera. The eye became her companion — one, then two. Some nights were as still as dead water. When the phone broke, the screen blurred. Hanh scraped together money to fix it. Just a little more, she thought — maybe someone would care. She practiced speaking more clearly. But whenever old memories surfaced, her voice wavered.

Cai Ban showed care the way poor people do: hauling water, bringing porridge, buying a shirt. Women urged Hanh to sell at the market. She refused. "Someone listens to me here."

They laughed. "The machine listens."

One rainy August night, Hanh went live. Wind howled, rain lashed the porch. The eye jumped to one. She smiled, told a story about An calling "Grandma." When she finished, her smile thinned. Late at night, her eyes burned. Then something felt wrong. The eye on the screen brightened, as if it had a pupil. From it seeped a red streak, running down the display. Hanh jumped up, trembling, trying to stop the stream. In a split second, it felt as if someone on the other side stared straight through her.

She couldn't breathe. Her chest tightened. An stirred, whimpering. Hanh turned to call her — but the sound stuck in her throat. The eye darkened, then vanished. The number returned to zero. Thunder shook the house. Lightning cast Hanh's swaying shadow on the wall. She collapsed like a dried banana leaf.

The next morning, An woke crying hoarsely in the empty house. Neighbours came, called out — no answer. Inside, Hanh lay before the table, the phone still on. The frame was frozen: a shirt hanging mid-air, white rain behind it. Hanh's hand was cold as receded water.

The funeral was poor; even the crying was poor. My held An before the altar. Neighbours cooked porridge, lit incense. Familiar boats cut their engines to ask, then moved on. An old woman placed a bundle of dried banana incense. "When she was little, she used to come asking for corn." In the Mekong Delta, people remember one another through small things.

My looked at her mother's portrait — taken from the phone, slightly blurred. She remembered nights when her mother talked alone to the screen. The eye showing viewers turned out to be her mother's last companion — a silent one.

After the funeral, My cleaned the house. In the cupboard was an old school notebook. Hanh's handwriting was round, uneven. Recipes, phone numbers of customers who never called back. One page read: "Someone watched for a long time today but didn't buy. It's okay. As long as someone listens to me."

My turned the pages, her eyes burning.

She sold belongings at the district market. An sat in a basket, holding a lollipop. That evening, My stood on the porch. The river breeze was gentle. She opened the old phone. A notification read: "Live session ended abnormally. Do you want to continue?"

It sounded like a hoarse cough in her ear.

She tapped "No."

My never livestreamed again. She cleaned a kindergarten, sewed pillows at night. She went back to school. An stayed with Aunt Sau next door. Life wasn't better — but it was warmer. Each evening, My lit incense and told her mother small stories, then smiled to herself.

On a rainy night, An pointed toward the river. My remembered helping her mother lift goods when the water rose. In memory, Hanh was always the hunched woman with low-tied hair, gentle yet stubborn eyes — who traded her strength for an indifferent eye on a screen. My promised herself she would teach An to read properly, fully.

One day, My asked a phone seller, "What does the eye on live mean?"

"The number of viewers."

My smiled faintly. "Sometimes it's just a counter."

The seller stared.

On the way home, My held An on the back of a new motorcycle taxi driver, Uncle Kinh. He rode slowly, talked about fruit trees, asked nothing personal. At the gate, he said, "If it rains hard, call me."

My thanked him. In the hamlet, everyone has scars; kind people know how to see without touching.

Flood season returned. Yellow sesbania flowers bloomed. My cooked sour soup, placed a bowl on her mother's altar.

"Mum, eat."

The words were light as wind — and warm.

That night, My took a small box from under the bed. Inside was an old photo of herself in third grade, standing beside Tam's Dream motorbike. The photo was yellowed. She cut out the man, kept the smiling little girl. She tucked it into her mother's notebook, on the page that read: "As long as someone listens to me."

My turned off the light. Far away, boat engines coughed through the night. Somewhere, Hanh's back felt lighter — no longer guarding an unfeeling eye on a screen. She lived now in other things: meals, a grandchild's voice, the smell of young mud.

The next morning, My walked An to school. Merchant boats passed again. Sellers called out. Life need not be grand — only to hold a hand and cross a muddy puddle together.

The eye from before has gone dark, but other eyes are opening — real, warm — looking at one another, calling names, helping each other across the turbid river.

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