Lập An lagoon at that hour when the water turns into a sheet of glass. The mountains behind it just sit there, doubled, like the lagoon couldn't decide if it wanted to hold the sky or the land. Little wooden stakes poke out where people farm oysters, rows of them going quiet into the distance, and every so often a boat cuts through and breaks the whole reflection apart for a second before it settles back.

What got me was how unbothered the place felt. No rush, no noise, just fishermen doing their thing like they've done it every day for years. The air smelled like salt and wet wood. Somewhere past Lăng Cô the train tracks run along the edge of it, and I stood there long enough to watch one pass, this small metal thing sliding between the mountains and the water like it barely mattered. It's the kind of view that doesn't ask anything of you. You just look at it.

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