The small piece of paper was still hidden under the old mattress, folded carefully like a vow.
"I'm Vietnamese. I was sold here 15 years ago. I'll help you."
The woman's name was Mai. Frail and hunched, she spoke broken Chinese. But her eyes held something different—a silent understanding of what it meant to live inside a cage.
One rare morning when Linh's mother-in-law was away, Mai passed by with a basket of vegetables and whispered:
Day after tomorrow. At dusk. Back gate. Dinner time is safest. I'll guard the door. You leave five minutes after.
She didn't look back. Linh began preparing.
This time, she had a plan.
- She hid a small kitchen knife inside a cloth wrap.
- Tucked old bills into her sleeve.
- Memorized every path Mai had shown her through the garden.
The night before the escape, she barely slept. Each creak of wood, each rustle outside made her flinch. But she had to stay calm.
This was her only chance.
…
The next evening was gloomy and damp. Light rain fell.
At 6 p.m., during dinner time, her mother-in-law shouted from the kitchen:
"Take out the trash and come right back!"
She nodded silently. Her hand clenched the wrapped knife. Her feet led her out the back, heart pounding.
Darkness wrapped around the yard. Wind howled through the bamboo trees.
Mai stood there like a shadow.
"Quick. This way. Do you remember the path I showed you?"
Linh nodded. One hand held her bundle. The other gripped the knife—not to harm, but to defend.
They ran through the bamboo, sneaking past a narrow dirt trail behind the village.
Then—dogs barked. Loudly.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She held on to the side of the truck, mud on her hands, blood in her mouth.
The road ahead was dark, unknown, dangerous.
But anything was better than the cage she'd just escaped.
She didn't know where it would take her.
She only knew one thing—
Tonight, she chose to live.
And sometimes, just surviving…
is the bravest kind of victory.
To be continued…