The mist clung to the pine trees like a lover's embrace as Minh made his way up the winding path toward the old pagoda. Da Lat was always beautiful at dawn, but there was something particularly magical about this morning—the way the sunlight filtered through the fog, turning everything into a watercolor painting of whites and golds.
At seventeen, Minh knew these mountains better than anyone. Born in the highlands, he'd grown up tracing paths through the forests while other children played in town. His grandmother called him người nói chuyện với cây—the one who speaks with trees—and the nickname had stuck, even though he'd always insisted the trees spoke to him first.
The locals respected him for his uncanny ability to predict weather changes and find medicinal herbs. The tourists—who flocked to Da Lat for its cool climate and French colonial charm—often paid him to guide them through the wilderness. But no one knew his true secret: that sometimes, when the mist was thick enough, he could see shapes in it that others couldn't—figures and faces that whispered ancient stories.
Minh reached the clearing where the old pagoda stood, its tiered roof still elegant despite years of neglect. It was his private sanctuary, a place where he came to think and, occasionally, to weep. Today was the anniversary of his parents' death—five years since the accident that had left him in his grandmother's care.
"I brought you flowers, Ba and Mẹ," he said softly, placing a handful of wild orchids on the stone bench where he always imagined his parents sitting.
The mist swirled around him, thickening despite the rising sun. Unusual, even for Da Lat's capricious weather. Minh felt a familiar prickling at the back of his neck—the sensation he got when the trees were trying to warn him of something.
"Hello?" he called out, suddenly certain he wasn't alone.
A figure emerged from between two ancient pine trees—a boy about Minh's age, dressed in clothing that seemed oddly formal and slightly out of time, like something from the old photographs of French colonial days that hung in Da Lat's cafés.
"You can see me?" The boy's voice held a note of surprise. He was handsome in a delicate way, with high cheekbones and eyes that caught the morning light like amber.
"Of course I can see you," Minh replied, though something about the question made him uneasy. "Are you lost? Tourists don't usually find this place."
The boy smiled, and the mist seemed to pulse around him. "I'm not lost. I've been here for a very long time." He stepped closer, and Minh noticed that his feet made no sound on the damp forest floor. "My name is Thuan. I've been watching you, Minh."
A chill that had nothing to do with the morning air ran through Minh's body. "How do you know my name?"
"The trees told me," Thuan said simply, as if this explained everything. "They've been telling me about you for years. The boy who listens. The boy who understands."
Minh should have been frightened, but there was something about Thuan that felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream. "What are you?"
Thuan's expression turned solemn. "I am what your people once called thần sương mù—a mist spirit. One of the last of my kind."
Minh had heard his grandmother tell stories of the spirits that were said to inhabit the highlands—entities that controlled the weather, guarded sacred places, and occasionally formed connections with humans who possessed the right kind of sight.
"That's not possible," Minh said, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were false. Hadn't he always seen things others couldn't? Hadn't he always felt the presence of something more in the mist?
"Your grandmother knows the old ways," Thuan said. "She has left offerings for my kind since she was a young woman. That's why the spirits protected you during the accident that took your parents."
Minh felt as though the ground had dropped away beneath him. "What do you mean, protected me? I was the only survivor because I was thrown clear of the car."
Thuan shook his head, his eyes full of ancient knowledge. "You were cradled by the mist. We couldn't save your parents—their time had come—but yours had not."
Minh's mind reeled. If what Thuan was saying was true, then everything he thought he knew about himself, about the world, was only a fraction of the truth.
"Why are you showing yourself to me now?" Minh asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Because Da Lat is in danger," Thuan replied. "The balance between your world and the spirit realm is fracturing. The old magic is fading as people forget the ancient ways." He pointed down the mountain, toward the city nestled in the valley. "There are those who seek to exploit the power that sleeps beneath these mountains—power they don't understand."
"What power?" Minh asked.
"The heart of the highlands—the source of the mist, the reason Da Lat has always been a place of healing and dreams." Thuan's form seemed to waver, as if he were having trouble maintaining his solidity. "I need your help, Minh. Your connection to this land, your ability to speak with the trees—these gifts make you uniquely capable of saving what is precious."
Before Minh could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the moment. Thuan's form began to dissolve into the mist.
"Meet me at the Valley of Love when the moon is full," the spirit whispered, his voice already fading. "Come alone, and I will show you what you need to see."
By the time Minh turned back from looking toward the path, Thuan had vanished completely, leaving only a swirl of mist that quickly dissipated in the strengthening sunlight.
"Minh! Are you up here again?" His best friend Linh's voice carried through the trees. "Your grandmother sent me to find you. She says you're late for helping with the market stall."
Minh tried to compose himself as Linh came into view. At sixteen, Linh was the son of the local herbalist and one of the few people who didn't think Minh was strange for spending so much time alone in the forest.
"Sorry, I lost track of time," Minh said, hoping his face didn't betray the extraordinary encounter he'd just had.
Linh gave him a quizzical look. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Minh almost laughed at how close to the truth Linh had come. "Just thinking about my parents," he said, which wasn't entirely a lie.
Linh's expression softened, and he put a comforting hand on Minh's shoulder. "I know today's hard for you. That's why I brought this." He pulled a small package wrapped in banana leaf from his pocket. "Mom made bánh tét. She knows it's your favorite."
The simple kindness brought unexpected tears to Minh's eyes. "Thanks," he said, taking the sticky rice cake.
As they walked back down the mountain together, Minh debated whether to tell Linh about his encounter with Thuan. They had been friends since childhood, shared everything. But something told him that this secret wasn't his alone to share—at least not yet.
The full moon was four days away. Until then, Minh would have to carry this new knowledge by himself, this understanding that the world was more mysterious and magical than he had ever imagined, and that somehow, he was being called to play a role in its preservation.
Beside him, Linh chatted about the tourists who had arrived at his family's herb shop that morning, oblivious to the fact that his best friend had just crossed a threshold from which there was no return.
Minh looked back once at the pagoda, now shrouded once more in the morning mist. For a moment, he thought he saw Thuan's face in the swirling white, watching him go.
The trees whispered as he passed, and for the first time, Minh truly listened to what they were saying.
Danger comes. Be ready. The mist weaver has chosen you.
Chapter 2: Secrets in the Herb Shop
The market bustled with activity as Minh helped his grandmother arrange her flower stand. Bà Nội, as he called her, was known throughout Da Lat for growing the most exquisite roses and dalias in her hillside garden. Tourists and locals alike flocked to their stall, drawn by the vibrant colors and sweet fragrances.
"Your mind is elsewhere today," Bà Nội observed as Minh nearly dropped a bucket of freshly cut sunflowers. Her eyes, bright despite her seventy years, studied him with unsettling perception. "The spirits are restless."
Minh nearly knocked over a vase. "What do you mean?"
His grandmother smiled cryptically. "I may be old, but I'm not blind. The mist followed you down from the mountain this morning. That only happens when they're trying to get someone's attention."
"You know about the mist spirits?" Minh asked, keeping his voice low as a group of Korean tourists browsed their flowers.
"Of course," she replied, as if he'd asked whether she knew how to cook rice. "Your grandfather was a friend to them. That's why they've always watched over you."
Minh felt a surge of frustration. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Bà Nội carefully trimmed the stem of a rose before answering. "Some knowledge can't be given, Minh. It must be earned. The spirits choose when to reveal themselves." She fixed him with a serious look. "What did they tell you?"
Before he could answer, Linh appeared at the edge of their stall, slightly out of breath. "Minh! Can you help me at the shop? Dad's gone to collect herbs from the Langbiang Mountain, and we've got more customers than I can handle."
Bà Nội nodded her permission. "Go. We'll talk later."
"But—" Minh began.
"Later," she repeated firmly. "The spirits have waited this long. They can wait a few more hours."
Minh followed Linh through the crowded market to his family's herb shop, a small but well-respected establishment that had been providing traditional remedies to the people of Da Lat for three generations. The shop was indeed unusually busy, filled with both tourists seeking exotic souvenirs and locals purchasing medicinal herbs.
As Minh helped package dried mushrooms and measure out herbs, he couldn't help but notice a well-dressed man in the corner of the shop, examining bottles of rare forest honey with an intensity that seemed excessive. There was something off about him—his clothes were too crisp for Da Lat's casual atmosphere, his shoes too polished for the often muddy streets.
"Who's that?" Minh whispered to Linh as they worked side by side behind the counter.
Linh glanced over and frowned. "He's been coming in all week. Says he represents some international wellness company looking to source authentic Vietnamese medicinals." Linh lowered his voice further. "Dad doesn't trust him. Says he asks too many questions about the old growth forests and the mountain springs."
The man approached the counter, and Minh caught a whiff of an unfamiliar cologne—something sharp and synthetic that seemed at odds with the earthy aromas of the herb shop.
"Excuse me," the man said in flawless Vietnamese, though his accent suggested he was from the north. "I'm looking for something specific today. Perhaps you can help me."
Linh put on his best customer service smile. "Of course, sir. What can I find for you?"
The man placed a photograph on the counter—a delicate white flower with translucent petals that seemed to glow even in the still image. "I need to find this. I'm told it grows only in certain misty areas around Da Lat."
Minh felt a jolt of recognition. He had seen that flower once, years ago, near the hidden pagoda where he had met Thuan. His grandmother had pulled him away quickly, warning him never to pick it.
Linh examined the photo and shook his head. "I don't recognize this species, sir. What is it called?"
"Locally, I believe it's known as hoa sương mù—the mist flower," the man replied, his eyes sharp. "It's said to bloom only at night during the full moon."
The full moon. The same time Thuan had asked to meet him at the Valley of Love.
"My father might know," Linh said. "He'll be back tomorrow if you'd like to return."
The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you, I'll do that." He turned to leave, then paused and looked directly at Minh. "You're the boy who guides in the forests, aren't you? The one they call the tree whisperer."
Minh felt a chill at being recognized. "Sometimes I guide tourists, yes."
"Perhaps I could hire you," the man suggested. "To help me find these flowers. I would pay very well."
Every instinct told Minh to refuse. "I'm sorry, I'm fully booked this week."
The man held his gaze a moment too long. "Perhaps another time, then." He handed Minh a business card. "Call me if you change your mind."
After he left, Linh exhaled loudly. "That guy gives me the creeps."
Minh examined the card. It was plain white with only a name—Tran Dinh—and a phone number.
"Did you notice he didn't ask about buying any actual herbs?" Linh said, organizing jars that didn't need organizing. "Just like the other day when he kept asking about caves and underground springs."
Minh slipped the card into his pocket, his mind racing. Could this Tran Dinh be connected to the danger Thuan had mentioned? The timing seemed too coincidental.
"Have you ever heard of hoa sương mù?" Minh asked casually.
Linh's eyes widened. "Only in stories. My grandmother used to say they were tears of the mist spirits, and that they bloomed only when the spirits wanted to cross into our world." He laughed nervously. "But that's just an old tale."
Or perhaps not just a tale, Minh thought.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur as Minh helped at the herb shop, his mind filled with questions. When closing time finally came, he bid Linh goodbye and headed toward his grandmother's house on the outskirts of town, where the modern city gave way to traditional farming homesteads.
He found Bà Nội tending to her beloved garden as the setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink.
"I met one of them," Minh said without preamble. "A mist spirit named Thuan."
His grandmother didn't look surprised. She simply nodded and continued pruning her plants. "I've been expecting this day for many years. Since the accident."
"He said the spirits saved me. That they couldn't save my parents, but they protected me."
Bà Nội straightened, her old knees creaking. "Come inside. This is a conversation for tea, not for open air where anyone might listen."
Inside their modest home, she brewed strong green tea while Minh recounted his meeting with Thuan. As he spoke, his grandmother's expression grew increasingly concerned.
"The balance is indeed fracturing," she confirmed when he had finished. "I've felt it in my bones. The offerings I leave don't disappear as quickly as they once did. The spirits are growing weaker."
"But why?" Minh asked. "And what can I possibly do about it?"
Bà Nội sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Long ago, Da Lat was a place where the veil between worlds was thin. The mist spirits were guardians of ancient power that flows through these mountains—power connected to the water, the earth, the very air we breathe." She set down her cup. "As people forgot the old ways, as forests were cut and springs were polluted, the spirits began to retreat. But the power remains, dormant beneath the earth."
"And someone wants to exploit it," Minh concluded, thinking of Tran Dinh and his questions about caves and springs.
"The mist flower," his grandmother continued, "is a key. It grows only where the veil is thinnest, and it blooms when the potential for crossing between worlds is strongest."
"The full moon," Minh whispered.
"Yes. If someone were to harvest these flowers at the right time, in the right place, with the right intention..." She shook her head. "They could potentially breach the spirit realm and draw power from it—power that was never meant for human hands."
"That's what Thuan wants to prevent," Minh said. "He's asked me to meet him at the Valley of Love on the full moon."
His grandmother's face grew grave. "Then you must go. But be careful, Minh. The spirits are not like us. Their concept of time, of life and death, of what matters—it's different. Even the friendly ones can be dangerous if they feel threatened."
"I'll be careful," Minh promised. "But I need to know everything you can tell me about the mist spirits and these flowers."
Bà Nội rose and went to an old cabinet, unlocking it with a key she wore around her neck. From inside, she withdrew a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age.
"This was your grandfather's. He documented everything he learned about the spirits during his lifetime." She handed it to Minh with reverence. "I've been waiting for the right time to give this to you. I believe that time is now."
Minh accepted the journal, feeling the weight of his grandfather's knowledge—and responsibility—in his hands.
"There's one more thing," Bà Nội said, her voice softening. "Thuan. This spirit who appeared to you. Your grandfather mentioned him specifically in his writings." She hesitated. "He was once human, many years ago, during the time of the French colonization. A young man who fell in love with the mountains and with... someone who couldn't return with him to France."
"What happened to him?" Minh asked, fascinated.
"He chose to stay in Da Lat, but died young during a storm on the mountain. The spirits, moved by his love for the highlands, offered him a place among them." She met Minh's eyes. "He is one of the few spirits who can take human form and interact with our world directly. That makes him both valuable and vulnerable."
Minh thought of Thuan's amber eyes and formal, old-fashioned clothing. Knowing he had once been human made their connection feel deeper somehow.
"Four days until the full moon," his grandmother said, glancing out the window at the darkening sky. "You should study your grandfather's journal. Learn what you can. And Minh—" her voice took on an edge of warning, "—be wary of strangers asking about the mountains and the mist. Not all who seek power understand the price it demands."
That night, by candlelight, Minh opened his grandfather's journal and began to read. The pages were filled with beautifully detailed drawings of plants, landscapes, and ethereal figures that seemed to form and dissolve on the page. His grandfather's handwriting was precise, documenting encounters with various spirits, their habits, their strengths, and their weaknesses.
One entry caught Minh's eye—a sketch of a young man who looked remarkably like Thuan, standing beside a French officer in colonial dress. The caption read: "Thuan and Henri, 1923. The human and the one who would become spirit."
Minh traced the image with his fingertip. Who was Henri? And what had been his relationship with Thuan? The journal didn't elaborate, but the way the two stood close together in the drawing suggested an intimacy that transcended ordinary friendship.
As Minh continued reading, his eyelids grew heavy. Just before sleep claimed him, he came across a passage that made his heart race:
"The mist flower opens only to those pure of heart. Its nectar, if consumed by one with the sight, can temporarily bridge the gap between worlds. But beware—to drink is to risk becoming neither fully human nor fully spirit, caught between realms for eternity."
Dreams of mist and mountains filled Minh's sleep that night. And somewhere in those dreams, Thuan's voice called to him, urgent and echoing:
"Hurry, Minh. Time grows short. The flower must not fall into the wrong hands."