I once swore I'd never go back. It wasn't a place. It was a shadow stitched into my bones. That place, in my memory, was all gray walls, cigarette smoke, and sounds unfit for the living. But after my book was released, I received a call from a border rescue organization.
They asked: "If you can, would you return—not to face it, but to help?"
It took me three days to answer. Not out of fear—but because I had to ask myself: Why do I go back? For revenge? For closure? Or to simply witness?
In the end, I said: "I don't need to confront it. But I need to see it."
I returned on a late winter afternoon. It was colder than I remembered. Quieter too. The house where I'd been locked was gone—replaced by makeshift rental rooms. I stood from afar, staring at the same leaning bamboo grove where Aunt Mai had vanished.
Tram, a young rescue worker, walked beside me. She said, "Many here don't know who you are. But they need you—as someone who survived."
I nodded. They didn't need to know my name. Just that someone had made it out.
I met three girls—none older than seventeen. One had just escaped. One awaited health tests. One was pregnant. I didn't ask questions. I simply sat and handed each a white handkerchief—unmarked, unstitched.
"This isn't for your tears. It's to keep something you want to carry—after you live on."
On the drive back, we passed a small market. A little girl sat outside, drawing with a twig on the dusty ground. I didn't stop. But the image stayed with me.
I saw pieces of myself in each of them. But I didn't try to name their pain. No one may remember I came back. But I do.
And the old embroidered cloth—I folded it and left it on the windowsill of the shelter office. No longer carrying it with me. Because I now know… some memories are meant to stay where they began—so we can walk forward with both hands open.
And I walked on—lighter than I had ever been.