Chapter 2 Melody of the Past

Minh Yen rested her chin on the windowsill, listening to the wind passing through the gaps with soft creaking sounds. Sheets of music fluttered through her fingers like old memories returning.

She often asked herself:

“Why did I choose music?”

She had never been a remarkable child, much less someone others would turn to notice. As a kid, whenever she stood on stage to tell stories or sing, whispers would stir in the class below:

“Her voice is so shaky.”

“Why does she dress so old-fashioned?”

“She’s always so quiet, huh?”

Those glances — not openly cruel, but enough to make one want to disappear. Yen became used to being called “gentle as a kitten,” “the quiet girl,” and therefore, used to not daring to dream big.

Yet, one time, she secretly joined the class’s performance group — only as a background singer. That day, he — the boy she quietly liked — stood on stage holding a microphone. The song was a simple school love tune, but his eyes seemed to sing to someone special.

And… she knew then, her heart had truly stirred.

He was brilliant — bright, smart, played guitar well, spoke charmingly, always surrounded by laughter.

And her? Just a skinny, quiet girl who always stood at the end of the line during PE class.

When the teacher asked, “Who wants to perform at the spring music event?” — he raised his hand first.

Minh Yen didn’t, though her heart had been trembling for a long time.

“I’m… not good enough. Not talented enough. Not pretty enough.”

Once, she gathered all her courage to write a New Year card and slipped it into his backpack. No name. No reply.

In youth, even a silent rejection could break someone’s heart.

From then on, she slowly closed herself off.

She didn’t hate music, but music had once made her feel... clumsy, undeserving.

Then one day, after the graduation exam, she heard the sound of a guitar in the living room.

Her father — a quiet man, always busy — was humming an old song.

Her mother stood at the door, softly singing along.

She quietly sat down and listened. And for the first time in a long while, her heart felt light.

“Music isn’t always about stage lights.”

“It can be quiet moments that connect people to one another.”

From then on, she listened to more music, jotted down bits of lyrics — though she never dared show them to anyone.

That afternoon, in their small house in the suburbs, Yen’s parents sat beside her as she looked over the university application list.

“You’re really thinking of choosing music?” – her father spoke.

“Are you sure about music?” – her mother asked gently, not sternly, but full of concern.

Yen nodded slightly, holding the pen with a faint tremble.

“We’re not stopping you. It’s just… you’ve never studied formally. Are you being too emotional in choosing?”

“What about your future career?”

She stayed silent.

For the first time, a strong desire bloomed in her heart — to make her own decision.

“I’m not sure. But I want to try.”

“I don’t want to regret never trying…”

Her mother looked at her for a long while. Then gently held her hand.

“Then we’ll support you. But promise us — don’t give up halfway. Even when it’s hard, you must stand on your own.”

Minh Yen nodded.

That night...

The small room was lit only by her desk lamp, shining through the folds of the curtain.

Minh Yen sat silently, her hand resting on a blank sheet of paper. Her music book, notebook, and university application form lay in front of her.

Outside, the wind blew gently. A soft piano melody echoed from the room next door — melancholic, yet peaceful.

Her mother knocked, then sat down beside her:

“Yen… your dad and I always respect your decisions. But this music major... are you choosing it because of someone?”

Minh Yen didn’t answer right away.

She simply lowered her head, bit her lip, and gently shook her head.

“I once liked someone…”

“I don’t know if he’s the reason I chose this path.”

“But now, I want to study for myself.”

“Music makes me feel like I’m not invisible. It’s gentle… like me.”

Her mother placed her hand over Yen’s, squeezing softly:

“If music helps you become stronger, then I support it.”

“But remember, you don’t have to be perfect right away. Just don’t give up.”

Yen’s eyes grew misty.

She nodded.

For the first time — since knowing what it meant to love and to be hurt — she truly understood:

She needed to walk her own path. Not for anyone else.

But for her own heart.

She opened her notebook and slowly wrote:

“Tomorrow, I’ll start learning music.”

“For myself. Not for anyone else.”

In her heart, for the first time, a tiny flame had been kindled — one she lit herself, not one sparked by someone else.

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