I’m Quan. Nguyen Van Quan. And I have an old habit of opening flashbacks.
Especially, when the light autumn rain falls in Saigon, I could easily get hit by the flashbacks of autumn from many years ago.
In our small but warm village in the countryside.
I was seven. Loc was thirteen. Dad had already left by then — not with shouting or slamming doors, but quietly, like a breeze that one day simply stopped blowing through our house. Mom said he went looking for better winds. He never came back, but we didn’t make it into a big tragedy. It was just… a gentle absence.
That autumn felt like magic and chaos mixed together.
After the rain, Loc and I would run barefoot through the muddy yard, using broken bamboo sticks as swords and banana leaves as shields. Loc kept complaining he was “too old for this nonsense,” but still chased me while dramatically yelling, “Behold! The Lazy Knight attacks with zero effort!”
We built a “secret fortress” using old rice sacks, coconut shells as helmets, and stolen clotheslines as traps. I was the overworked general, while Loc declared himself “King Sloth the First,” whose only royal duty was lying on a pile of leaves and giving lazy orders.
“General Quan, go fetch me mangoes. The king is too tired to climb.”
I climbed the old mango tree behind the house. Loc sat below, swinging his legs lazily while I tried (and failed) to reach the highest fruits. He eventually sighed, climbed up with one hand, and dropped two ripe mangoes into my shirt like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Share with me, okay?” he said, ruffling my hair. “And don’t tell Mom I let you climb so high.”
Later, we sat on the porch eating the sweet, messy mangoes with sticky hands. Loc told me silly stories about the clouds — how one looked like a giant lazy cat sleeping on its back, just like him. I laughed until my stomach hurt. He pretended to be annoyed, but I could see the small smile on his face.
When the evening rain came again, we ran inside soaking wet. Mom scolded us half-heartedly while drying our hair with old towels.
Then we sat on the floor playing O An Quan with pebbles and broken tiles we found in the yard. Loc obviously cheated, moving pebbles when I wasn’t looking, and we argued loudly until Mom threatened to make us eat bitter melon soup for a week.
Those days were loud, sticky, and perfect in their own chaotic way. We turned whatever the world gave us — bamboo, banana leaves, coconut shells, and stolen mangoes — into entire kingdoms.
I miss that autumn sometimes.
Not because it was perfect.
But because even when the wind took Dad away, Loc and I still had each other — two brothers building our own ridiculous little world out of whatever was left behind.
~~~•••~~~
I woke up at 6:15 AM like always.
At twenty years old, I’m in my final year of university, majoring in Communications, and working part-time as an online “Love Advisor.” Yes, that’s right. I give romantic advice to lonely people on the internet.
They pay me to write sweet messages, craft pickup lines, and help them not sound like total disasters on dating apps. It’s chaotic, ridiculous, and surprisingly profitable.
Especially when it comes to my brother.
Loc is twenty-six now. He was still snoring under that old ceiling fan like the world owed him sleep. After everything with New Loc and the Kien incident, he’s been bolder. Trying, in his own awkward way. But I can tell he’s carrying a lot.
I don’t want him to end up like Dad — someone who just gave up when things got hard.
So today, I decided, I’d do something nice for him.
I slipped out quietly into the light drizzle. Saigon’s rare autumn rain was falling softly, golden leaves drifting down from who-knows-where. The city felt gentler than usual. Almost nostalgic.
I bought breakfast — warm banh mi, a tall coffee, and a small slice of flan cake I hoped might tempt Loc out of his usual morning coma.
I even stopped at the flower stand and bought a small bouquet of white daisies. I thought Tram might like them if Loc ever decided to be a decently romantic human being.
The light drizzle felt gentle on my skin as I walked back, golden leaves drifting lazily from trees that had no business growing in this city.
But something was off.
The raindrops began carrying scents. Not random ones — they were memories.
One drop landed on my wrist and suddenly I smelled Mom’s old kitchen during Tet, the sweet steam of cake mixed with the faint herbal bitterness she used to boil for us when we were sick.
Another drop brought the rubbery smell of our childhood bicycles, the ones Loc and I raced down muddy alleys until the tires were completely bald.
A third carried the dusty, familiar scent of our ceiling fan, spinning lazily above two brothers who once believed the world could be fixed with laughter and stolen mangoes.
Each drop that touched my skin pulled me back in time.
A single golden leaf floated down and landed softly on my shoulder. When I picked it up, words were written across it in Loc’s familiar, lazy handwriting:
“I’m tired, Quan. Stop trying to fix me.”
I froze in the middle of the sidewalk, rain falling quietly around me.
This wasn’t normal rain.
This was autumn trying to speak.
I stood there for a long moment, the leaf trembling slightly between my fingers as more golden leaves drifted down like quiet confessions. The city felt alive in a strange, melancholic way — soft, nostalgic, and a little mischievous, as if Saigon itself was gently reminding me that some things couldn’t be forced into perfection.
I carefully folded the leaf and slipped it into my pocket.
“Saigon in autumn is truly strange,” I whispered with a smile.
On the way back, I ran into Tram near the gate. She was carrying a stack of books, looking a little tired but still effortlessly pretty.
“Quan?” she said, surprised. “You’re up really early today.”
“Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound casual while hiding the flowers behind my back. “Just… getting some stuff for Loc.”
Tram smiled faintly, a small, knowing look in her eyes.
“How is he? After… everything that happened.”
I hesitated for half a second, then gave her my best reassuring big-brother smile.
“He’s doing okay. He’s trying really hard, you know. More than he lets on.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“I know,” Tram nodded and said quietly. “He always tries in his own… very Loc way.”
We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds under the light drizzle. Then she gave me a small wave and continued on her way.
I watched her go, feeling a strange mix of hope and guilt in my chest.
When I finally got home, the apartment was still quiet. Loc was probably still asleep, lost in whatever dream a twenty-six-year-old sloth has.
I set the breakfast on the table, the banh mi now humming a soft, slightly off-key version of “See Tình.” The paper flowers kept changing their message every few seconds.
“Your brother’s lazy as fuck.”
I stared, the message changed again.
“But he’s trying tho.”
Then:
“Still lazy as fuck.”
I sighed and just threw them onto the table. I’ve got more business to do.
Next, I would go to Loc’s company. Just to check. Just to make sure no one was still talking badly about him after the New Loc incident. A little protective brotherly reconnaissance. Nothing too extreme.
Big mistake.
~~~•••~~~
The moment I stepped into Loc’s company lobby, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
A woman at the reception desk squinted at me, then her eyes widened like she had seen a celebrity.
“Wait… you’re Quan? THE Quan? Professor Heartbreak Fixer? The legendary online Love Advisor?!”
Word spread faster than office gossip about free snacks.
Within seconds, people were swarming me from all directions.
“Professor Quan! You’re the one who told my cousin to send a meme instead of a long apology paragraph and it actually worked!”
A hand squeezed my shoulder and pulled me a full 360.
“Bro, your advice about ‘reply slower than her to regain power’ saved my relationship!”
Even the team leader was smiling warmly. “I’ve been following your anonymous account for months. Your roast of that guy who ghosted after three dates was legendary.”
I switched into full charm mode without missing a beat, flashing my brightest, most trustworthy smile.
“Alright, alright, I’m off duty today,” I laughed, raising my hands. “But quick questions only. One minute per person.”
A marketing guy stepped forward nervously. “Professor, I sent ‘goodnight ❤️’ but she replied with just ‘k’. What do I do?”
I leaned in with fake seriousness.
“Send her a meme of a disappointed cat. Then immediately follow up with ‘just kidding, you’re cute when you’re concise.’ Trust me, 70% success rate.”
The guy looked like I had just given him the meaning of life.
Another girl asked desperately, “What if he takes 6 hours to reply?”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“Reply in 7 hours. Make him suffer. Power move.”
Laughter erupted across the lobby. People were nodding vigorously, taking notes on their phones. For a brief, glorious moment, I was the undisputed king of the office.
I couldn’t help feeling a little proud. Maybe I really could help improve Loc’s image here.
Before I knew it, I had been at the company much longer than planned. The staff were surprisingly welcoming, giving me a full tour of the office, showing me Loc’s desk (which was suspiciously tidy today), and even inviting me to stay for lunch in the company cafeteria.
I accepted without hesitation. This was the perfect chance to plant some positive stories about my brother and maybe gather useful intel.
We sat at a long table near the window. I was casually sipping on a warm cup of tea, chatting with Loc’s department head, Mr. Khang.
“You know,” I said with an easy smile, “Loc may seem quiet and a bit… detached sometimes, but he has this dry, sarcastic humor that really grows on you once you get past the first layer. He’s more reliable than people think.”
Mr. Khang nodded thoughtfully, stirring his tea.
“Interesting. He’s always been quite… unique. But lately he seems different. More focused, perhaps?”
I was about to reply when the lights in the cafeteria flickered gently. A soft, unnatural breeze swept through the room. Golden autumn leaves began drifting down from the ceiling, even though there were no trees inside the building.
People around me started to zone out. Their eyes grew distant as childhood memories suddenly flooded back without warning.
Mr. Khang suddenly teared up, staring into his cup.
“I… I just remembered when I was seven and cried for three days because my mother threw away my favorite red kite…”
The woman next to him began humming an old lullaby with a dreamy smile.
The autumn side effects had officially arrived — and it had brought an entire season of memories straight into Loc’s workplace.
I froze, the cup of tea halfway to my lips.
Oh no. Not here.
Golden autumn leaves swirled faster through the cafeteria, thick as snow in a storm that had no right to exist indoors.
The soft instrumental music they had played suddenly swelled into a full, heartbreaking choir. Within seconds, the entire company had transformed into an emotional flash mob.
Mr. Khang began climbing on his chair with tears streaming down his face, singing an old ballad about his first love in middle school with surprising vocal power.
The marketing team was openly sobbing while sharing stories about their childhood pets. A woman from accounting hugged a potted plant and whispered, “I’m sorry I forgot your birthday in 2011…”
I jumped into action, heart racing.
“Okay, okay, we can fix this!” I grabbed the Bluetooth speaker and tried to change the song. Instead, the volume exploded. Now the whole floor was passionately singing about lost umbrellas and broken hearts from their school days.
I snatched a stack of napkins and tried to wipe away the floating golden leaves.
The leaves multiplied instantly, turning into a gentle but chaotic tornado that made desks sway like they were slow-dancing in the wind.
Office chairs started gliding across the floor in elegant, melancholic circles.
“Stop dancing! This is a workplace!” I yelled at a particularly emotional swivel chair.
A marketing guy grabbed my arm, eyes glistening. “Professor Quan, do you think my ex from 10th grade still thinks about me?”
I patted his shoulder desperately. “Probably not, but that’s growth! Let’s celebrate emotional independence!”
The water cooler suddenly tipped over. The spilling water transformed mid-air into hundreds of floating golden droplets, each one projecting tiny holographic memories — first crushes, lost toys, awkward school plays.
People were laughing, crying, hugging, and singing all at once.
I stood in the center of the beautiful disaster, surrounded by dancing furniture and a choir of nostalgic adults, realizing I had somehow turned a normal lunch break into a full-scale autumn memory apocalypse.
And in the middle of all this chaos, the elevator doors opened.
Loc stepped out for his afternoon shift.
He stopped dead in the doorway, eyes slowly widening as he took in the scene: golden leaves swirling like emotional confetti, colleagues singing heartbreaking love songs, chairs waltzing across the floor, and Mr. Khang dramatically reciting poetry about his lost red kite from 1987.
His gaze swept across the room until it landed on me.
I stood there in the middle of the beautiful disaster, holding a half-empty cup of tea, surrounded by floating holographic childhood memories, with a guilty smile on my face.
Loc stared at me for a long moment.
Then, in that perfectly deadpan way only my brother could deliver, he spoke loud enough for the entire floor to hear:
“Are you serious, Quan?”
The singing faltered. The dancing chairs slowed down. Even the golden leaves seemed to pause mid-air.
I gave him my brightest, most innocent smile.
“…Surprise?”
