Morning came. Linh didn't know whether she had actually slept or just fainted from fear. Weak sunlight filtered through the barred window, casting a pale glow over her swollen face—red eyes, cracked lips, a body stiff from cold and dread.
It wasn't a dream. It was all real. She was somewhere deep in rural China, trapped in a house that felt more like a prison than a home.
He returned, holding a bowl of cold porridge and wearing a lifeless expression.
Eat. I don't want my wife starving to death.
Linh didn't move. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to run. But she bowed her head and quietly took the bowl.
She didn't eat because she was hungry. She ate because she had to live.
…
The days that followed were pure hell.
She was forced to become his wife, watched constantly, forbidden from stepping outside. No one spoke to her except him and his elderly mother, who shot her contemptuous looks as if she were filth.
She had no name. They called her "the Vietnamese wife."
She was beaten when she resisted, starved when she stayed silent, and treated like discarded trash.
Some nights, she wondered: Would death be her only escape?
But then she thought of her mother. Of her younger brother. If she died, they would never know what happened to her.
She had to live. She had to find a way out. She had to go home.
And then... a flicker of hope appeared—in the form of an older woman living next door.
That woman had once heard Linh crying at night. One day, when the mother was out, she slipped Linh a small piece of paper, the words written in shaky Vietnamese:
"I'm Vietnamese. I was sold here 15 years ago. I'll help you."
Linh held the note in her trembling hands. Tears welled in her eyes.
For the first time in countless days of darkness, she felt—maybe—she wasn't truly alone.