He made his way to a small restaurant by the side of the market, where a motorbike driver sat idly, waiting for customers. Dara approached an old man,
"Hello, Uncle."
The old man looked up, his expression unreadable. He was a frail figure with gray hair, and his movements were slow,
"You want to go somewhere?" he asked, his voice thick with age.
But there was something off about the way he spoke—his tone felt a bit too eager, almost as if he were expecting Dara.
The man's eyes glinted with a strange intensity that made Dara pause for a moment. Something about the old man's presence felt out of place, like a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface.
Dara held his ground, trying to mask the unease rising in him. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a random encounter. Something about the way the old man had approached him didn't sit right.
"Do you know about FaFa Salon?" Dara asked, his voice steady despite the tension building within him.
The old man's eyes flickered with recognition. "Oh, I know. It's nearby, just a few minutes walk," he replied, his voice slow but certain.
"I need your ride!" Dara said, his request urgent but calm.
"Ok!" The old man nodded and revved the motorbike, speeding off toward the salon.
Once they arrived, Dara hopped off the bike and turned to face the old man, his eyes narrowing.
"Why did you approach me?" he asked, his voice cold.
The old man let out a low laugh, one that seemed to carry a hint of knowing. "Hus ha! You noticed."
Dara's gaze hardened. "You know my mom, don't you?"
The man chuckled again. "You're Saroath's son. I can tell by your look. Am I right?"
Dara stood frozen, a mix of anger and confusion surging through him. "You know my mother!"
"You look so much like her," the old man continued, his voice nostalgic. "We lived in the same area. Went to the same school. She would often ride on my motorbike. She gave me money now and then. She was a kind soul, I'm sorry for your loss."
"Ride your motorbike? Where did she go?" Dara's voice was sharp, the questions building up faster than he could keep track.
The old man's expression grew somber, but he didn't hesitate. "Went to the market, bought food. Had friends around here, there."
Dara's mind raced. "When was the last time you saw her?"
The old man looked at Dara, his face suddenly serious. "Kid, be humble."
Dara's eyes narrowed, his patience thinning. "She's dead, uncle. Suicide. You knew that, didn't you?"
The old man nodded slowly, his face etched with sorrow. "I know, boy."
Dara clenched his fists, his frustration boiling over. "So please, answer me. What did you know about her last days?"
The old man took a deep breath, his voice lowering as if reluctant to speak. "I took her from meeting someone around here."
"Who did she meet?" Dara pressed, leaning closer.
The old man's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. "Your… your father, I believe. In a black car…Around 3 p.m if I wasn't wrong!"
Dara's heart skipped a beat. "Are you sure?" His voice was barely a whisper, his chest tightening with disbelief.
The old man chuckled softly, raising his head and looking at Dara with a challenging glint in his eye.
"Don't look down on this old man, everybody here knows me Ta Chek! Ta Chek! Mr. Leng, your grandpa, Rith, your uncle, we knew each other!!"
"Uncle Chek!"
"Yes! Young boy, Move on!"
Dara stood still for a moment, processing everything the old man had said. He took a deep breath, trying to control the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.
"Thank you, uncle," he said quietly, his voice more composed now, though his mind was reeling. "For your answers."
Without another word, Dara turned and walked toward the salon, his thoughts consumed with the unsettling revelations.
***
The old man Chek lingered outside the salon, his presence heavy, as if he wasn't quite ready to let Dara go. Dara ignored the feeling that something was off and stepped into the salon, the doorbell chiming softly as he entered.
"Hey," he called out, his voice low.
A young lady in her 20s behind the counter smiled warmly. "Hello, brother. How can I help you?"
Dara hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "Can I meet the owner?"
"Oh, Sister Minea?" the young woman asked, raising an eyebrow in recognition. "Wait a moment."
Moments later, a woman in her 40s emerged from the back of the salon. Her expression was calm, but there was a sharpness to her gaze as she looked at Dara, taking in his appearance.
"Who are you? Saroath's son?" she asked bluntly, her tone unwavering.
Dara's chest tightened, the words stinging like a slap. "Yes," he replied, his voice steady despite the rush of emotions. "I need to ask you something. I checked your chat with my mom since she was still alive!"
The woman, Minea, studied him for a long moment, her eyes unreadable. She didn't immediately answer but gestured toward a seat. "Come in. We can talk."
As Dara followed her inside, he could feel the tension in the air—something he couldn't quite place but knew was significant.
Dara leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He needed answers, and he couldn't let this moment slip away.
"Did my mom come here often and also on the last day?" he asked, his voice steady but heavy with anticipation.
Minea nodded, her gaze softening as she recalled the memory. "Yes, she did."
Dara's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the weight of her words felt like a heavy stone.
"How did she feel that day?" he pressed, desperate for clarity.
Minea's expression grew distant for a moment as she seemed to search through her memories.
"She seemed fine... she was her usual self, which is what threw me off. I couldn't believe she would do something like that. She was talking about sending you abroad, getting things in order for your future but lacking money, it's her urgent ...."
Dara's mind whirled with the information. "Lacking money, it's she urgent?"
"Yes," Minea said softly, her voice steady and clear. "That day, she told me, 'I have to send him away as soon as possible,' but she was waiting—waiting for money, maybe in a month or so. She was so beautiful that day, so full of determination. But there was... something else."
Dara leaned in, his eyes narrowing with intensity. "Something else? What was it?"
Minea hesitated, a troubled look crossing her face. "She said… something felt off. Like something wasn't right, but she didn't go into detail. She kept talking about getting her money back."
Dara's pulse quickened at the mention of money. "Money?" he repeated, the word echoing in his mind. "What money?"
Minea paused, taking a deep breath. "She said the money was for your future. For your education... she wanted to make sure you were taken care of, that you'd be set up for a better life than she had."
Dara sat back, his thoughts racing as the pieces started to come together in ways he hadn't expected. The money, the urgency, the cryptic words. It didn't add up, and yet, it felt like the key to something.
"And where did she go after leaving your place? Did anyone come to meet her?" Dara asked, his voice sharp with urgency.
Minea shook her head. "No one came here. After she washed her hair, she said she was going to meet her stepdaughter."
"Stepdaughter! Are you sure?"
"That's what she told me, but I don't know if she actually met her."
"What time did she leave?"
"Around 2pm."
"2pm?"
"Yes."
—
After leaving FaFa Salon, Dara strolled down the road, heading for the corner Ta Chek had described—the spot beside an abandoned shop where the black car had been parked that day. He stopped there, scanning his surroundings.
No house, no shop, no visible cameras to offer a glimpse of the past. Just the stillness of the pond nearby, its surface dotted with waterlilies and tangled with water hyacinths, a quiet reminder of the rural expanse surrounding him.
Ta Chek insisted Saroath had met Mr. Heng, but Minea claimed it was the stepdaughter.
What was the truth?
Dara reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over Monica's name on the screen. His brows furrowed in hesitation. A moment passed, then another, and with a quiet sigh, he lowered the phone. Not now, he thought. Not yet.