On the second floor of my ông bà ngoại‘s house sits the room of my ông cố, long departed. Like always, there is a faint trace of his sleeping self, skin withering from ninety years of living. I hold my breath. A heavy step will lead to a grunt and a yell, so I lighten my steps as if my toes were feathers. I desire to turn the creaky knob, step modestly into the room and bow with a greeting of “Chào ông cố, con nơi đây” as I have always done but I do not. The door remains closed and I leave the dusty knob untouched.