A cup of hot tea for a cloudy morning. Today, Dalat is still the same – peaceful, still, and quiet.
If you close your eyes, you can clearly hear the breath of the green pine trees, the chirping of birds hopping from branch to branch, and the laughter of the wind.

I walk into the garden, pick a few chocolate mint leaves and a couple of sweet grass tips, drop them into a cup of freshly boiled water.
Sunlight begins to pierce through the fluffy white clouds and falls straight onto the wooden chair where I sit.
The warmth of the tea in my hands reminds me of Hanoi’s winter – of the fine drizzle that comes in the afternoon, of the early mornings where mist lingers over narrow alleys.

I miss it, yet I don’t want to go back.
I feel conflicted.
But wait – is it really me who’s conflicted, or is it Hanoi itself?
Never mind.
Even if I ask, who would have the time to answer me anyway…

The wooden chair, damp and mossy from the night’s dew, creaks softly beneath me.
I sit still, tilt my head back to watch the clouds drift idly by.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply – the scent of earth, of tea, of wild daisies in the air – wishing that when tomorrow comes, I’ll still remember this clear, gentle morning just as it is.

Last night, I went again to the small café run by the dear friends I happened to meet when I first arrived at Nha.
Another cup of hot tea – raspberry mint this time.
I sat quietly, listening to the conversation, smiling at moments because youth is such a dreamy thing.
My youth, too, was once tenderly dreamy.
I sat still and listened.
I could sit like that for a long, long time. I’ve always been the listener, the one collecting stories.
Me and stories – like a drunkard and his glass of wine.

Ah, this morning, just as I woke, I caught the faint scent of lemongrass somewhere in the house.
The kitchen was warm.
And my heart, warmer still.
I read a note and smiled to myself, ignoring the two cats nudging my legs for breakfast.

“I made some vegetarian in the clay pot, the eggs and soup are in the microwave, and the pickled eggplant with soy sauce is in the fridge.
You and T[…] have lunch together, okay?”

Suddenly, I wanted to cry.
Cry out loud – though I didn’t know whether it’s from joy or from sadness.
Cry because I’ve met such gentle, kind souls, or cry because soon, I’ll have to say goodbye.
I don’t know…

Just be,

Dalat, 2018.10.18