Chapter 8: The First Time Speaking Publicly

That morning, Linh stood before the mirror. Her white blouse didn't fit like before—her shoulders had grown thinner. Her hands trembled slightly as she buttoned the collar, her eyes drifting down to the faint scar on her wrist. In her bag, the embroidered cloth from Aunt Mai was still there—folded carefully. She carried it with her, always.

The national conference on human trafficking was held in a large convention center—stage lights, cameras, hundreds of eyes. Linh had never stood before so many people. When the emcee called her name, her heart pounded loudly. She stood, but her feet felt rooted, as if the very shoes she wore were holding her back.

"You don't have to do this, truly," whispered Huong, gently touching her elbow.

Linh turned to leave.

Then, from the back of the auditorium, a soft whisper echoed in her mind: "Linh… go. Don't look back."

She froze.

It was Aunt Mai's voice—the very words she spoke the night she pushed Linh into the truck three years ago.

Linh bit her lip and reached into her bag. The cloth was still there—trembling slightly in her grip, like it had its own breath. She inhaled deeply and walked straight to the stage.

As she stepped into the spotlight, the overhead lights flared softly—catching the threads of the cloth in her hand, making them glint like fading gold. For a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

"I'm Linh. At seventeen, I was trafficked across the border. Three years without a name. No ID. No windows. I was 'the Vietnamese wife' of a man I never knew."

The room fell silent. Linh looked down—saw Hoa in the front row, nodding. Her eyes were dry, but her hand tightly held a white scarf—a gift Linh had once given her after their first therapy session.

"I'm not here to tell a tragedy. I'm here because there are still hundreds like me—never named. And because I once wished… someone had spoken before I was taken."

Linh reached into her pocket and pulled out the embroidered cloth. She held it up before the mic—no need to explain.

After the speech, a young official came up to shake her hand.

"You gave soul to the numbers on paper. And you made people like me want to do better."

Linh smiled softly. She didn't thank him. Because she knew—those who lost their voices don't need praise. They need to be heard.

That night, she returned to her rented room. At her desk, the cloth lay under the lamp, its colors slightly faded. She opened her laptop and began typing her speech in English. For the first time, she thought about sending her story beyond Vietnam.

She typed the first line: "My name is Linh. Silence almost erased me. But I've learned that even a whisper can cross borders."