April 6th, 2012
Nguyen Uy was a little boy born into a humble merchant family in the quiet countryside of Long Hai, a small coastal town in southern Vietnam. His father, a slender man with a weathered face and gentle eyes, ran a modest rice shop. His mother juggled between managing their small business and working as a seamstress, her hands always busy with fabric and thread.
Their three-room wooden house, though modest, was filled with warmth, laughter, and the comforting scent of freshly cooked rice – a simple joy in rural Vietnamese life.
That year, Uy turned six. One golden afternoon, when the summer sun poured down like honey onto the backyard, a small moving truck stopped in front of the empty house next door. A young couple from the North had arrived, carrying with them hopes of a new life – and a daughter about the same age as Uy. Her name was Nguyet Phuong.
Phuong was unlike any girl Uy had ever met. At just five years old, she radiated an infectious energy – bright and warm, like sunlight on morning dew. Her long black hair flowed gently behind her, and her big round eyes sparkled like little onyx marbles beneath the sun. Her cheeks were always tinged with a rosy pink, and her voice chirped with the liveliness of a baby sparrow.
Her favorite outfit was a red dress dotted with tiny white flowers – a gift sewn by her grandmother back in the North, just before their family moved South. The dress was more than clothing – it was a piece of home, a thread connecting past to present. It was also the very first thing Uy noticed about her that day.
On the day of their housewarming, neighbors came by to welcome the newcomers. Phuong's father, smiling ear to ear, offered a steamed chicken—a traditional dish for celebratory gatherings in Vietnam. He shook hands warmly with Uy's father, and despite having just met, they chatted like old friends. Uy's mother brought over a big pot of rice porridge, fragrant and golden—a simple, comforting meal often shared in Vietnamese homes.
The two mothers, though from different regions, bonded instantly. They moved seamlessly together in the kitchen, chatting endlessly as they prepared food—southern herbs mingling with northern spices in a pot of unity. (Note: In Vietnam, women from the North and South often have different accents and cooking styles, but share a deep sense of community.)
While the adults laughed and cooked, the two children were left to play in Phuong's freshly painted pink room. The walls were decorated with colorful stickers—cats, rabbits, sunflowers, and rainbows. In the middle of the floor was a soft mat laid out like a miniature picnic. That's where Uy and Phuong sat—two opposite worlds placed side by side.
Uy, as always, held a book tightly in his hands. It was "Vietnamese History for Children," a birthday gift from his father. He was engrossed in its pages, eyes moving steadily from line to line, seemingly unaware of the lively girl sitting just inches away.
Phuong, of course, couldn't sit still.
"Hey, you! What's your name?" she chirped.
"Uy," he replied briefly, eyes still fixed on the book.
"Wow, cool name! I'm Phuong. I'm five years old!"
"Six," he added, barely above a whisper.
"Ooh, so you're older. But I don't wanna call you 'big brother'—I'll just call you 'you', okay?"
(In Vietnamese, younger children usually call older ones anh – meaning "older brother" – as a sign of respect.)
Uy gave a small nod, never looking up.
Curious, Phuong leaned closer. "What are you reading?"
"Vietnamese history. It has lots of really interesting stories. I never get tired of it."
It was the first time he had said more than one sentence. Phuong blinked, surprised and delighted. Something about the way he talked about history lit up the room. She sensed, instinctively, that this was something Uy truly loved.
"Really? Like what?"
Uy sat up straighter, his voice gaining a quiet excitement.
"There was once a Vietnamese princess. To protect her people, she agreed to marry the king of another country. But when that king died, they tried to force her to die with him."
"What? That's so cruel! Didn't anyone help her?"
"Her brother, the king of Vietnam, sent a general on a ship to rescue her."
Phuong's mouth dropped open. Though Uy spoke softly, his words painted vivid images in her mind. The quiet boy beside her now seemed like a storyteller from a world long past.
"Did they save her?"
"Yes. She returned home safely."
"Uy! Phuong! Dinner's ready!"
Phuong's father called out from the living room, his voice pulling them back to the present.
Phuong hesitated, reluctant to leave the magical story behind. She turned to Uy and held out her pinky finger. "Promise you'll tell me more next time, okay?"
Uy looked at her for a moment, then gently linked his small finger with hers.
"Deal."
It was the first time he smiled—just a little. But that little smile was enough to make Phuong's heart flutter.
And so, in a room decorated with cartoons and clouds, beside a book filled with old legends, a childhood friendship quietly began—sweet and pure, like the first breeze of summer, sealed with the simplest and most sacred vow two children can make: a pinky promise.