Part 9
Richmond, Virginia — March 2010
The letter came on a Thursday.
It was handwritten, the envelope lined with old Vietnamese stamps. The return address was one Jack recognized instantly — the small commune near Đắk Tô.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
The writing was from Minh’s granddaughter.
“Dear Mr. Turner,
My grandfather is very sick. He asks for you by name. We do not know how long he has. If you are able… please come.”
That evening, Lena found her father sitting in his study, bamboo bird in hand, the letter lying open beside him.
He looked up, eyes tired but resolute.
“I have to go,” he said.
Lena said nothing for a long moment.
Then, with a soft smile: “I’ll book the ticket.”
Vietnam — April 2010
The heat clung to Jack like memory.
This time, he didn’t take a truck. He rode with Minh’s grandson on the back of a motorbike, weaving through hills painted in shades of green he had forgotten. The jungle had grown taller, older — like both of them.
When they reached the village, Minh’s home looked nearly the same.
But the man inside had faded.
Minh lay on a woven mat, a cloth draped across his chest. His frame had shrunk, but his eyes were still clear, still sharp — still the eyes of the boy who had once lied to save a man he should have handed over.
Jack knelt beside him.
For a long time, they said nothing.
Then Minh smiled.
“You come,” he whispered.
“Of course,” Jack said, voice cracking. “Always.”
They sat together under the low awning of the hut as night fell, watching fireflies dance like old ghosts.
Minh motioned weakly for something.
His granddaughter brought out a small bundle — cloth wrapped around something delicate.
Inside, the final bird.
Jack turned it over in his palm. This one was different. More intricate. Wings outstretched.
“I make… from old hut bamboo,” Minh said slowly.
Jack stared at it. “You kept the hut?”
Minh nodded once. “Fell down years ago. But I save wood. For this.”
The next morning, the sun rose over the hills with a softness Jack had never noticed before.
Minh passed just after dawn.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
His fingers rested on Jack’s arm, the bamboo carving clutched gently in his hand.
They buried him beneath a banyan tree on the edge of the rice fields.
Jack placed the final bird atop the mound, resting it in the crook of the roots. The wind stirred, carrying the scent of wet earth and morning smoke.
Jack closed his eyes and whispered: “You carried me, Minh. I carry you now.”
That evening, Jack sat with the family and shared stories. Stories that had never made it into war records. Stories that didn’t end in medals or parades — only in a bamboo hut, in silence, in choice.
Before he left, Minh’s granddaughter gave Jack a small box.
Inside: the photo of her grandfather’s brother. The original.
“He would want you to have it,” she said.
Jack held the image — the boy in uniform, smiling.
It felt like a full circle.
A war buried. A peace earned.
A friendship carved from the hardest wood.
