I used to think sleep didn't require bravery. But for those who lived in fear—sleeping peacefully is a privilege. For years, I slept in alert mode. A sound woke me. A dream crushed me. I stopped trusting people—including myself. I listened for footsteps. Held my breath at the sound of turning locks.
But months after Geneva, something changed. I no longer slept curled tight. No more knife under the pillow. No more ceiling light to remind myself I still existed. I still dreamed—but not of terror.
In my dreams, Aunt Mai sat by a fire, hunched slightly, holding a cup of tea. She said nothing. Just looked at me and nodded. One evening, I finished the final piece for my book's reprint. It wasn't long—just one paragraph: "Thank you to those who were silent. Thank you to those who endured without witness. And thank you to the one who vanished so I could remain."
I turned off the light. Didn't check my phone. Didn't double-check locks. Didn't open the window. The air in the room didn't move. Even silence had softened. I just placed my hand over my chest, felt my heartbeat slowing—not out of fear, but out of peace.
And for the first time in many years, I slept. No nightmares. No jolts. Just a quiet sleep. As if every door inside me had gently closed.
Author's Note
This book was never meant to be a story. It began as scattered memories—written to survive my own silence. But over time, I realized that healing does not happen alone. It happens when stories are shared, when names are remembered, and when voices rise again.
To those still in darkness: I see you. I once was you. To those who vanished for others to live: you are not forgotten. And to Aunt Mai—wherever your name has disappeared into—this book carries it home. And keeps it warm.
— Linh