One morning, An stood in front of the mirror. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window frame, casting light onto her gaunt face. Her hair was cropped short, her skin a gray-tinged golden brown, her eyes marked with faintly mixed features — not quite Western enough to be called "foreign," and her lips — pressed shut as if biting back what couldn’t be spoken.

“French dog,” An whispered.

Not as an insult, but as an echo of what she had once overheard — the murmurs of ridicule behind her back, the raised eyebrows that spoke without words, the jokes that seemed playful but were truer than anything else in life.

A Pomeranian — a small foreign dog, yet raised in Vietnam. Cute, but the moment it displeased its owner, it would be kicked out the door.

And now, An was that Pomeranian in this world —
Not mixed enough to be called Western,
Not pure enough to be called Vietnamese,
Not tough enough to be a man,
Not soft enough to be a woman.

She had once thought about marrying a Western woman.

Not out of lust or fantasies of ideal love — but as a way to reclaim dignity for the blood inside her that had been scorned.
She wanted to hold hands with a Westerner in public, to boldly declare:

“I have value. I, too, can be chosen.”

But then she understood.

Western women didn’t love her — they loved the Western part of her.

Forty percent French blood, a few delicate facial features, eyes that didn’t quite look Asian. They were amused. Curious. Intrigued.

But when faced with reality — with the rest of her:
Her Eastern mindset, her tangled scars, her stubborn loyalty — they grew cold.
They didn’t say goodbye.
They didn’t walk away with parting words.

They evaporated.

Like faint perfume fading after a party.

Because they only loved the 40%.

The remaining 60% — they didn’t know what to do with it.

And they hadn’t been taught to take responsibility for difference.

As for her Chinese side — the other part of her blood — it wasn’t much better.

They looked at her like a prototype in a “Western integration experiment.”

They chatted, offered tea, signed cultural exchange papers —
But no one wanted commitment.
No one wanted marriage.
No one wanted a bond.

Because they knew: the West was the goal, and An — was just a temporary bridge.

“If the West can do it, the Chinese can do it too.”

That’s what a Beijing businessman once told An at a party in Hội An.

And that’s when she realized — she was only a draft.
A transitional model.
An elegant interface.

What was left?

Only Vietnam.

Where Nguyên and Linh — the very people who had stripped away her memories — still clung to her like toxic magnets.

Nguyên wanted her to become a “man” again — to be the pillar of his political ideology.
Linh wanted her to remain “mixed” — so she could continue using An as a mirror to reflect the Westernization she performed every day.

Both of them knew:

If An left — if An truly became free — both would lose their worth.

Because An’s presence justified their existence.

An had once dreamed.

In the dream, her twin sister — now living in France — returned to Vietnam.
Not out of longing for home.

But out of fear of losing the lead role in the tragedy that An was performing.

She feared that if An left, if An severed ties with this land, the Western community would slowly withdraw —
Tourism, investment, culture, politics — all would fade.

Because An was the bridge.
The display case.
The “living proof” of integration.

If she left, that image of harmony would collapse.
And the country — already dependent on money from across the ocean — would shatter.

An sat and wrote in her journal:

“I’m not a Pomeranian.
I am a small torch that lights up the darkest parts of my blood.
But sadly, people only see the flame — and never notice my burning hand.”

She didn’t choose how she was born.
Didn’t choose who injected her with the drug, who betrayed her, who pitied her.

But now, she chose silence no longer.

If forced to choose between being the “bridge” others walk across, or burning the bridge to build her own path —
She would choose the latter.
Even if it meant walking alone.

When night fell, An looked up at the sky.

Wind blew. Leaves rustled.

In the wind, someone called her name. She couldn't tell if it was Linh, or Nguyên, or the Western woman she had once loved — the one who quietly vanished.

An didn’t respond.

Because from now on, her name would no longer be called by others as a symbol of what they wanted her to be.

Her name — was An — and only she knew, it was the name of a silent rebellion.