Lam Pham rummaged through the family storage, gathering everything necessary: a small hoe, a wooden shovel, an old watering can, and a few cloth bags for soil. He chose only worn-out items that no one would miss—to avoid suspicion.
The siblings had reached a clear agreement:
* The work would be done in her room, with the door locked and curtains drawn tight.
* Every half-hour, he would step outside to pretend to fetch water or sweep the yard.
* She would stay outside on lookout. If anyone approached, she would whistle, and he would return instantly, as if he had never left.
Lam Ngu nodded, her eyes bright with the importance of her mission. She even proactively suggested:
"You should choose the corner behind the grain bin to place the soil pots. Even if someone looks through the window, they won't see a thing."
Lam Pham smiled, his heart warming. His little sister was not just sharp-witted; she knew how to plan and care.
Lam Pham returned to the barren space, his hand gripping the old wooden hoe. The blade struck the ground, which was as hard as stone and so parched that it struck tiny sparks. A thin layer of dust rose, lingering in the silent air before slowly settling like ash.
He looked up, gazing into the distance.
The land stretched out endlessly—no trees, no grass, only cracked earth and profound silence. Even though he was growing accustomed to the sight, his heart still sank. This wouldn't be finished in a day, or two... even a month might not be enough.
But rushing would serve no purpose.
Lam Pham took a deep breath and placed a hand over his chest, where his steady heartbeat felt like a small drum in a soundless sky. He began to map it out:
"One sao (marching area) at a time. Till one section, sow one section. No greed, no rush."
The hoe swung again. A dry clack rang out—this time, it wasn't a sound of disappointment, but a beginning.
At nightfall, Lam Ngu snuck into his room. Holding hands, they stepped silently into that other space.
The light from the two celestial bodies above shone down, clearly illuminating the plot of land they had just tilled. The soil was still uneven, the hoe's blade having left deep marks—the traces of a day's relentless labor.
Lam Pham pointed, his eyes gleaming: "Look! I've finished a whole section. Tomorrow, we start sowing!"
Lam Ngu watched in silence for a moment. Then she shook her head slightly, her voice small but as sharp as a blade:
"The soil is parched, cracked, without a shred of humus... what plant could possibly survive here?"
The words were like a bucket of cold water splashed over Lam Pham's heart. He stood frozen, his hand still clutching the hoe's handle. The sweat on his brow, not yet dry, felt like it was turning to ice.
Lam Pham took a deep breath and slowly relaxed his shoulders.
Where there is a problem, there is a solution. One by one.
He wasn't discouraged. He just... hadn't done enough.
Dry soil needs water. But where? The stream behind the house was crystalline, cool, and full of vitality. But... could water be brought inside?
No sooner said than done.
The two siblings crept out of the room when the moon was high. The whole village was submerged in sleep. Insects chirped beneath the bamboo groves, and occasionally a distant dog barked before vanishing back into the night.
Silvery moonlight spread evenly over thatched roofs, over the shimmering terraced fields, and over the worn dirt paths marked by generations of footprints. The air was chilly, smelling of fresh rice and dew-drenched grass. The moon was perfectly round, hanging in the sky like a benevolent eye watching their every step.
Lam Ngu led the way, gripping the hem of his shirt, her eyes darting around. She whispered:
"Go a bit further from the village. In case someone wakes up..."
Lam Pham nodded. He understood. Even with careful calculation—the half-hour intervals, the locked door—both of them disappearing at once was a risk. It was best to be out of anyone's sight, even if they were just vague shadows under the moon.
They followed the field embankments, passed the old banana grove, and reached a bend in the stream hidden behind a hillock where the water flowed gently and the pebbles glowed white under the moon.
Lam Pham knelt, scooping water with both hands. It was freezing, clear, and shimmering as if plated in silver.
"Let's try," he said firmly. "If water can be brought... then this land will live again."
Lam Pham pulled out a prepared coconut shell dipper, tied securely to the handle of a small wooden bucket—the kind usually used for bathwater. He looked at his sister, his voice serious but warm:
"I'll handle the moving in and out with the water. The watering inside is up to you."
Lam Ngu showed no fear; instead, her eyes shone like night stars.
She stepped forward and hugged the bucket with both hands. Her frame was slender, her shoulders thin, and her arms lacked the muscle of one accustomed to heavy lifting. But she pressed her lips together, took a breath, and pushed up from her waist, slowly lifting the bucket off the ground. The water inside sloshed, nearly overflowing, but she held her balance like a child who had fetched water for her mother from the village well a thousand times.
"Leave it to me!" she said, her voice full of pride. "You worry about bringing the water in; I'll worry about watering the plot!"
Lam Pham looked at her, a strange warmth in his chest. It wasn't because she was strong, but because she believed. Believed that this meant something. Believed that the two of them could change something, even if it was just a plot of barren dirt.
Without hesitation—the night was late, the moon was fading, and cold dew clung to their sleeves. Time was running out.
Lam Pham appeared in the middle of the barren land, clutching the bucket of stream water. The water was still slightly warm from the earth's depths, and heavy, but he didn't dare slow down.
"Hurry!" he called softly.
Lam Ngu ran over, supporting the bucket with both hands. She crouched, using the strength of her back and arms to keep it from tilting. Despite her slenderness, her movements were quick and steady from years of chores.
She scooped a dipper-full and watered the freshly tilled rows.
As the water fell, it initially only left wet streaks on the hard, dry surface. A moment later, the top layer began to soften, turning from a grayish-white to a deep dark brown. The small cracks slowly closed up. The surrounding air felt less dry, carrying that characteristic scent of freshly watered earth.
The siblings looked at each other. Neither spoke, but they both saw it: the soil was beginning to hold the water.
It was just that—but it was enough to continue.
Lam Pham didn't hesitate. If the soil could hold water, then the seeds could be sown.
He hurriedly pulled out the handful of seeds he had prepared: glutinous rice, mung beans, and cabbage. After a moment's thought, he left the cabbage seeds in his palm. They grew the fastest; he would test those first.
"Sow them now," he said, his voice low but decisive. "The moon is still up, the dew is wet, and the soil is just damp enough."
Lam Ngu nodded without question. She sat down, using her hands to dig shallow furrows along the rows, about two knuckles deep. Then she dropped the seeds, spacing them evenly as their mother had taught them: "Don't be greedy and pack them tight; the plants will fight for food and all will die."
Lam Pham brushed a thin layer of soil over them. Then, Lam Ngu gave them one more light watering, just enough to reach the roots.
Nothing happened immediately. No sprouts poked through, no strange lights. There was only wet earth and seeds lying still beneath a thin layer of silt.
They stood up and brushed the dirt from their clothes. The night wind grew colder, and the moon had vanished behind the distant rooftops.
It was time to go back.