Before the sun could even peek through the horizon, the lights were already on in the grand kitchen of the mansion.
Oum Chan stood by the stove in her crisp white shirt and patterned Khmer skirt, her salt-and-pepper hair tucked neatly into a bun and pinned under her headscarf. The smell of fried rice with egg, grilled pork, and freshly brewed jasmine tea filled the air as she moved with quiet confidence. She didn't need to taste anything—years of experience had trained her hands and senses better than any recipe.
Beside her, Soy was chopping fruit while Douern plated warm baguettes with butter and jam.
"You cut that mango too thick," Oum Chan said without looking. "Thin slices, so it's soft on the tongue."
"Yes, Oum," Soy quickly adjusted, biting her tongue to keep from giggling. It wasn't scolding—it was love disguised as perfection.
Despite being one of the wealthiest families in Phnom Penh, the Sems weren't picky about food. Piseth once said, "We're not royalty. As long as it's clean and fills the belly, we're good." Pisal often agreed with a gentle nod, while Dalis would always sneak something sweet before breakfast, earning herself an extra spoon of fruit just to keep her from skipping meals.
By 6:30 AM, the trays were already lined up—each with a personal touch.
"Pisal likes his rice soft," Oum Chan reminded as she wiped her hands on a towel. "Add a little more broth."
"Already done, Oum," Douern smiled proudly.
"Good. We serve early, with a full heart. That's how this house runs."
Sophak, the driver, poked his head into the kitchen, yawning.
"Tea's on the counter," Oum Chan called out before he could ask. "And don't spill it again."
He chuckled. "Yes, Oum Chan."
As the sun finally began to rise over the rooftops, the mansion was already buzzing softly, peacefully, like a heart waking up. And at the center of it all was Oum Chan—watching, guiding, and making sure everything ran like clockwork.
Pisal's Painting Room – Late Afternoon
These weekdays, he was bothered by the VIP patient who was so clingy, and there were a lot of demands because he had money. The little master, Pisal, was so stressed whenever he thought about that crazy patient. However, finally, he could get rid of him, since he had moved out of the hospital. Pisal took a deep breath, then walked towards a well-closed room.
The room was tucked away on the second floor of the mansion, quiet and dimly lit with golden slants of sunlight peeking through the blinds. Shelves were filled with brushes, acrylics, and unfinished canvases. On the far wall hung several portraits, but one sat alone, covered in a white cloth.
Pisal stood in front of it, his fingers brushing over the draped fabric with hesitant affection.
He hadn't come into this room in a long time. Life had gotten busy—medical school, family duties, the hospital, and now… now something else entirely occupied his heart.
Nuong.
He didn't realize it until she was gone from his sight. The ache came subtly, like a breeze through the cracks of a sealed window. He didn't even know when it started—until he found himself thinking of her when he couldn't sleep, or smiling faintly at her stubborn bravery.
He sighed, then slowly pulled the cloth off the old canvas.
The portrait stared back at him—half-finished, gentle brushstrokes frozen in time. A little girl, around seven years old, was sitting on a rock with flowers tucked into her hair, her smile radiant with childhood joy.
He remembered it like it was yesterday.
Flashback – 13 Years Ago
He was just a 14-year-old boy, on a quiet summer day, painting by the lotus pond at his family's countryside villa. That was when she appeared—a messy-haired little girl in worn sandals and a dress too big for her.
"Are you drawing?" she asked, her eyes curious.
Pisal looked up, surprised. "Yeah."
"Draw me!"
"Huh?"
"Please?" she begged with both palms together. "I want to look like a princess."
He'd laughed back then, a shy, gentle laugh. "Okay… Sit there. Don't move."
She'd done just that. She was energetic, kept humming, swinging her legs—but there was something about her that made him keep painting, stroke after stroke.
Then, before he could finish, a voice called out in the distance:
"Nuong! Come back now!"
The girl turned her head. "I have to go!"
"Wait! What's your name?" he called out as she ran.
She waved. "Nuong!"
He'd scribbled it quickly in the corner of the canvas, just above a dried smudge of paint.
Back to Present
Pisal reached out now, gently touching the faint letters—Nuong.
He had kept the painting all these years, not knowing why.
And now, he knew.
It was her.
A soft smile pulled at his lips, bittersweet and longing. "So… it was you all along," he murmured.
He leaned against the edge of the wooden stool, resting his chin on his hand, his heart heavier now that he realized he missed her far more than he admitted to himself.
Evening – At the Mansion
Nuong knocked lightly on the door to Jackson's study. He was sitting under the lamp, reading old medical journals, eyes tired.
"Dad," she said with a gentle smile, stepping in. **"I want to go out. Just you and me. Like… like father and daughter."
Jackson blinked, caught off guard. "Out? Now?"
"Yes," she nodded. "Just something normal. A walk, or anywhere fun. I want to know what it feels like… to be with a dad who cares."
He lowered his eyes, throat tight. Slowly, he stood and smiled softly.
"Alright. Let's go."
Pisal's Suggestion
Before they left, Jackson called Pisal, who was still at home.
"Pisal, where can I take a teenage girl for a father-daughter kind of walk at night? Preferably something… fun?"
Pisal laughed gently over the phone. "Try Diamond Garden Park. They're having a night carnival. It's safe, there's food, games, lights—Nuong would love it. And there's a haunted house too, if she dares."
Jackson chuckled. "She's braver than me, I'm afraid."