It was around 11 p.m, one day at the end of December 1972. On the road from Nhon to Hanoi, there was a young man, Lam, in his 30s riding a city bike alone in the night relentlessly. The coldness of the North winter made the atmosphere unusually hard and dense; Lam’s breath was like a spread of wavy fog in front of him. To protect himself from the frosty cold, Lam wore an old padded cotton waistcoat with the sewing path already turned pale green. 

Lam whistled faintly hoping to dispel the isolating feeling on the empty road.

The beverage stalls were flickered with oil lamps, which at 7 p.m when Lam passed by, were covered completely by several bamboo panels. During the war period in the North, there was hardly any light; Hanoi was engulfed in darkness daily at 7 p.m. Only the sound of frogs and insects remained steady around Lam.

Suddenly at the three-way intersection, a young lady with a plastic knitting basket on her hand waved and gently asked Lam for a ride. The lady had shaggy long dark hair and pale olive skin like she had not left home for a long time. Lam hesitated, but he was allured by her gorgeous eyes and her plump red lips making him stop before he even noticed. She said that she was from the nearby village and she needed to go to Hanoi for urgent matters. Lam did not trust the lady yet, but right now, it would be great to have a companion so Lam happily let the lady sit on the bike back seat and intentionally pedalled more leisurely. They both started their stories. The lady told Lam that she lived at number 44, Quan Thanh street. Her whole family evacuated all the way to Son Tay, and she went to the family's house in the village. Today, she had to go back to the city because of urgent work. Lam said that he was part of the Hanoi civil defence officials and had a duty here this afternoon. 

The two enthusiastically chatted and laughed, making the distance seem short. After a while, Lam felt the lady huddling slightly, trembling in the back. He remembered that the lady was wearing a thin braided white shirt only. Lam hurriedly stopped the bike, gallantly took his waistcoat off, gave it to the lady and made an excuse of being too hot while riding the bike. The lady shyly put the waistcoat on and they continued the journey. Lam excitedly told many stories about his life and only heard soft “yes" sounds from the back. 

It was around 11 p.m. on a late December night in 1972. On the road from Nhon to Hanoi, a young man named Lam, in his 30s, was riding a city bike alone in the relentless cold. The North’s winter made the air unusually dense and heavy; Lam’s breath formed waves of fog in front of him. To shield himself from the biting chill, Lam wore an old padded cotton waistcoat, its seams faded to a pale green.

Lam whistled softly, hoping to ward off the isolation that came with the empty road.

The beverage stalls, which he had passed at 7 p.m., were now dark, their oil lamps long extinguished and covered by bamboo panels. In the wartime North, light was scarce, and Hanoi was plunged into darkness daily by 7 p.m. The only sounds that accompanied Lam were the croaks of frogs and the hum of insects.

Suddenly, at a three-way intersection, a young woman holding a plastic knitting basket waved him down and gently asked for a ride. She had long, shaggy dark hair and pale olive skin, as though she hadn’t seen the sun for some time. Lam hesitated, but her captivating eyes and plump red lips drew him in, and before he realized it, he had stopped. She said she was from a nearby village and needed to get to Hanoi for urgent business. Though Lam wasn’t entirely sure of her, the thought of having company on the road was appealing. He let her sit on the back of the bike and deliberately pedaled more leisurely.

They began talking. The woman told Lam she lived at 44 Quan Thanh Street. Her family had evacuated to Son Tay, but she had stayed behind at their village home. She had to return to the city today for important matters. Lam, in turn, shared that he was a civil defense official in Hanoi and had been assigned to duty in the area that afternoon.

Their lively conversation and laughter made the distance feel shorter. After a while, Lam noticed that the woman was trembling slightly in the cold. She was only wearing a thin, white braided shirt. He quickly stopped the bike, took off his waistcoat, and handed it to her, pretending he was too warm from pedaling. The woman shyly accepted the coat, and they continued on. Lam kept telling stories about his life, but soon, her responses grew softer until there was only the occasional "yes" from behind.

Then, without warning, the woman fell completely silent. Lam repeated himself but received no answer. Concerned, he quickly turned to check on her. A cold chill ran down his spine—she was gone.

Where had she gone? She couldn’t have jumped off while the bike was moving. When had it happened? Fear gripped him, and his body tensed up, his stomach churning. Taking a deep breath, Lam pedaled furiously toward Hanoi. His heart only eased when he saw the flicker of oil lamps in the distance, signaling the outskirts of the city.

The next morning, although unsure about the woman’s story, Lam decided to check the address she had given him. He arrived at a large, seemingly abandoned house—number 44, Quan Thanh Street. Spider webs clung to corners, dry leaves covered the ground, and dust coated the walls. He stood at the door, debating whether to knock.

“What are you doing? What do you want?” a hoarse voice asked from behind. Lam turned to see an old man with a sorrowful face.

“Sorry, I’m just looking for number 44, Quan Thanh Street. Is this the house?” Lam hesitated, thinking he might have made a mistake.

“Yes, this is the house. How can I help you?” the old man replied, barely glancing at Lam.

Lam explained what had happened the night before and described the woman he had given a ride. The old man suddenly stopped.

“Please, let me see her. I won’t cause any trouble,” Lam insisted. The old man silently opened the door.

Inside, Lam’s heart nearly stopped. On the altar in the center of the room, partially obscured by the haze of incense smoke, was a photograph of the woman. The same face, the same hair, the same smile—it was the hitchhiker. Stunned, Lam slumped onto a bench by the door.

“She’s my daughter,” the old man said, wiping away tears. “She died in a coach accident more than two years ago, on the road you just mentioned. Since then, sometimes her friends come to light incense for her, and sometimes strangers do too. Some of them are kind, but others come here angry, thinking my daughter played tricks on them. I thought you were one of those people.”

“I don’t think she meant any harm,” Lam replied quietly. “She must be cold and lonely up there.”

The old man’s voice broke as he continued, “I’m too weak now. If you don’t mind, please light incense for her if you pass by that road again.”

Lam said nothing. He approached the altar, lit three incense sticks for the woman, and hurried out of the house.

From that day on, though Lam never returned to see the old man, he always carried incense with him, just in case he passed that way again. He never forgot the warmth of his waistcoat, though he wondered if he would ever be brave enough to ask for it back if he saw her again.