They took a flight from Saigon to Da Nang, where a friendly driver from the resort was already waiting at the airport to take them to Hoi An.
The next morning, they set out to discover the hidden charms of the ancient town.
The morning sunlight filtered through moss-covered red-tiled roofs, casting a golden glow over the Thu Bon River, which flowed gently past the edge of the old town.
Kien Quoc and Sari walked slowly along the brick-paved streets of the historic quarter, where every corner seemed to hold a fragment of the past.
Hoi An unfolded before them like a living painting—weathered rooftops, silk shops lining the alleys, and lanterns swaying softly in the breeze.
Though Kien Quoc had read extensively about Hoi An, standing in its heart stirred something far more profound.
His footsteps fell lightly on the aged bricks, blending with the quiet murmur of local voices.
Sari moved beside him, her camera constantly in hand, capturing the details—the faded signs, the carved doorways, the way the light touched old wooden beams.
"Hoi An used to be a bustling trading port," she said, scanning the narrow street with curious eyes.
"It's hard to believe that, centuries ago, it was such a hub of commerce.
I read somewhere that during the Champa period, this was also a key trading point." She turned to Kien Quoc, eyes gleaming.
"What do you think? Maybe this river once saw fleets of merchant ships passing by?"
Kien Quoc nodded.
"You're right. The Thu Bon River was the main artery, connecting Hoi An to inland regions.
The Cham people used it to move goods—gold, silk, and especially agarwood. It was highly prized back then."
They stopped at a small museum displaying Champa artifacts—ceramics, weathered stone statues, and ancient steles etched with time.
Sari squinted at one of the stone tablets, then let out a soft smile.
"Sanskrit?" she said. "I can't read much, but it looks like a prayer." She turned to Kien Quoc, eyes alight with curiosity.
"It's amazing to think that someone carved these words so carefully, so long ago, with all their devotion."
"Their traces are still remarkably clear," Kien Quoc replied, his gaze resting on an intricately carved statue.
"But over time… so much has been lost—dissolved into the flow of history."
By late afternoon, Hoi An glowed even more brightly.
Lanterns flickered to life, casting a soft, colorful glow that shimmered across the streets and the water.
Kien Quoc and Sari sat by the river, enjoying a bowl of Cao Lau, rich with the flavors of Central Vietnam.
Sari lit up as she tasted it for the first time.
"The people here are so kind," she said. "They're always willing to share stories. It's like each person is a walking history book."
Not far from their table, an elderly man smiled and approached them.
"Are you two travelers?" he asked, his voice warm and familiar.
Kien Quoc explained their journey and his search for family origins.
When he mentioned Simhapura, the man's expression shifted to thoughtful recognition.
"Simhapura… That was once the capital of Champa," he said.
"But you know, the Cham people left behind more than just towers and temples.
They left their spirit here, in this land. Hoi An may be a crossroads of cultures now, but its roots… they run deep into Champa soil."
The old man's words lingered with Kien Quoc—another piece of the puzzle falling quietly into place.
Even after centuries of change, the memory of a brilliant culture continued to echo through the heart of Hoi An.
The next morning, Kien Quoc and Sari boarded a boat bound for Cham Island, a nearby archipelago.
The vessel glided across the deep blue sea, where untouched nature mingled with echoes of an ancient past.
Sari leaned on the railing, her hair dancing in the ocean breeze.
"So beautiful," she murmured.
"I read that the Cham people used to stop here for fresh water and food." She glanced at Kien Quoc with a wistful smile.
"Do you think a Cham fisherman once stood right here, looking at this same ocean?"
When they reached the island, its raw beauty captivated them—long stretches of white sand, crystal waters catching golden sunlight, and beneath the surface, vibrant coral reefs shimmering like underwater gardens.
They set off on a scuba diving trip, wearing goggles and snorkels, gliding among schools of colorful fish and waving sea plants.
The light filtering through the water made the corals gleam like living jewels.
"So beautiful!" Sari called out, her voice muffled by the sea but filled with wonder.
"It's hard to believe this quiet island was once a stop for traders from all over, coming to buy Cham goods."
That evening, they sat on the beach, watching the moonlight ripple across the waves.
A local fisherman, with sun-worn skin and a gentle voice, told them about the ancient Cham well on the island—still in use after centuries.
"It never runs dry," he said. "They say it's a gift left by the Cham people… for future generations."
He spoke of Cham seafarers—how they built great ships and sailed across oceans to trade with distant lands.
As the fisherman's voice blended with the rhythm of the sea, Kien Quoc and Sari sat close together in silence, feeling a quiet, powerful connection to the past—
To the people who once lived here,
To the stories still waiting to be told,
And to each other.
Hoi An and Cham Island were not just famed travel destinations—they were living witnesses of a once-glorious civilization, forever tied to the land where his ancestors may have once walked.
Beneath the star-strewn sky, Kien Quoc and Sari both understood: their journey was only beginning.
The secrets of Champa, and perhaps the truth of the Nguyen family, were still waiting to be uncovered.
Before heading to Tra Kieu, they made a stop at the Da Nang Museum of Cham Sculpture.
Located in the heart of the city, the museum houses the finest expressions of Champa art—many artifacts unearthed from Tra Kieu, My Son, and surrounding regions.
For Kien Quoc, this wasn't just another museum visit.
It was a step deeper into a world that had always seemed distant—now suddenly, urgently, personal.
As they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Soft lighting bathed the room in warmth, reflecting off carved stone statues, ancient reliefs, and weather-worn altars.
Every artifact bore the marks of time—intricate carvings etched with devotion, the surfaces smoothed by centuries of sun, rain, and reverence.
"This is where the soul of Champa is kept," Sari whispered, eyes shining as she gazed upon statues of Shiva, Vishnu, and other Hindu deities.
"These aren't just works of art. They're the heartbeat of a forgotten civilization."
Kien Quoc approached a large sandstone relief, capturing a vivid scene of gods battling demons.
Even the smallest details—the tension in muscle, the veins in hands, the emotion in carved eyes—left him in awe.
"The Cham sculptors were masters," he said.
"It's hard to imagine they created this with only the simplest tools."
In one of the inner chambers, they discovered a room dedicated to Tra Kieu artifacts—stone altars, broken Sanskrit inscriptions, and delicate shards of ancient ceramics.
A large altar at the center caught their attention.
Meticulously carved lotus flowers and mythical beasts curled around its base, each detail alive with symbolism.
"This altar was excavated in Tra Kieu," said a museum guide who had noticed their interest.
"Tra Kieu was once the capital of Simhapura, the religious and political heart of Champa.
Most structures have vanished, but pieces like this help us glimpse the grandeur that once was."
Sari listened intently, her expression thoughtful.
"Champa is a vital part of Southeast Asia's history—yet so little of it is remembered."
One artifact held Kien Quoc transfixed: a sandstone stele, carved with graceful Sanskrit characters, each line flowing like poetry.
"This stele was also found in Tra Kieu," the guide explained.
"It records the praise of a Champa king, celebrating a great victory and the construction of a temple in gratitude to the gods."
Kien Quoc stood silently before it.
Though he couldn't read the language, he felt the pulse of the past in every chiseled line.
He imagined his great-grandmother—Nguyen Thi Thanh Mai—perhaps standing before this very stone, in a world now lost to time.
Nearby, Sari was busy taking photographs and scribbling notes, her fingers dancing between camera and notebook.
"Have you noticed how much of their art is tied to belief?" she asked.
"They didn't just build monuments. Every detail carries their spiritual identity—their way of seeing the world."
She continued snapping photos, her flash briefly illuminating ancient patterns.
Then, suddenly, something familiar appeared in her camera frame.
She paused.
Her voice lowered to a whisper.
"Look at that… it's incredible. Your bowl. Why is it here?"
Kien Quoc's breath caught.
He stepped closer, eyes locked on the artifact.
There it was—a jade-glazed ceramic bowl, its shape, glaze, and carved motifs identical to the one he had won in the auction.
Every swirl, every ridge in the pattern was exactly the same.
His heart pounded.
A coincidence?
Or was this another thread in a deeper story—one that had been calling to him from the very beginning?
Leaving the museum, Kien Quoc and Sari stopped by a small café nearby, sipping their drinks and reflecting on what they'd just experienced. For both of them, the museum was more than just a space displaying artifacts—it was a gateway into a distant past, a place where time itself seemed carefully preserved in every detail. They were surprised to notice many foreign visitors but very few Vietnamese tourists. They noticed the scarcity of Vietnamese visitors—was it the entrance fee, or perhaps something more profound, like a disconnection from their own cultural heritage?
"What do you think about Tra Kieu now that you've seen these artifacts?" Sari asked, taking a thoughtful sip of her coffee.
"I feel a powerful urge," Kien Quoc replied. "I want to witness what's left of it with my own eyes—even if all that remains are mere fragments. Perhaps there, I'll find some answers for my family."
Sari smiled warmly. "I share that feeling. This journey isn't just yours—it's a chance for me to discover more about a forgotten culture."
After finishing their drinks, they left the café, eager for their next destination: Tra Kieu. And yet, the memory of the Champa museum clung to their thoughts, vivid and haunting, reminding them that the past is never truly lost, only waiting patiently to be rediscovered.
On the road from Da Nang to Tra Kieu, they decided to stop at a small roadside restaurant in Cau Mong, renowned for its grilled veal with fish sauce—a beloved specialty of Central Vietnam. The restaurant was modest, featuring rustic wooden furniture under the cooling shade of green trellises.
Each plate of grilled veal arrived thinly sliced—tender, flavorful, with layers of succulent fat and crisp skin, accompanied by a basket of fresh green herbs and a bowl of richly aromatic fish sauce.
"The fish sauce really is the soul of this dish," Kien Quoc remarked, dipping a piece of grilled veal into the sauce before wrapping it in rice paper with fresh vegetables. The savory depth of the fish sauce blending with the sweetness of the meat, the crisp freshness of herbs, and the fiery touch of chili made him exclaim with pleasure.
Sari nodded enthusiastically, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "This fish sauce truly is unique. It's completely different from what I've tasted in Bali. It feels more than just seasoning—it's like tasting a piece of history and culture."
She took a bite and said, 'It's delicious—so different from any fish sauce I've tasted before.'
Kien Quoc nodded thoughtfully. "I once read about this sauce in a document by the 17th-century priest Cristoforo Borri. He referred to it by the name 'balaciam,' which many scholars believe was an early term for fish sauce. Does that term sound familiar to you?"
Sari raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Balaciam? Perhaps that's the phonetic transcription of the original fish sauce?"
"Exactly," Kien Quoc confirmed. "It originated from the Cham people, and later the Vietnamese adapted it into the fish sauce we enjoy today."
They continued enjoying their meal, leisurely observing the vibrant local life around them. Nearby, a group was chatting animatedly, their laughter blending into the warm, lively atmosphere.
Sari reflected softly, "It's fascinating how a single dish can narrate history, revealing the intricate ways cultures influence each other. This is truly one of the most memorable dishes I've ever tasted."
Leaving the restaurant, Kien Quoc and Sari walked another twenty minutes to Tra Kieu, known historically as Simhapura, the ancient capital of the Champa kingdom. Tra Kieu revealed itself—not as bustling as Hoi An nor as wild as Cham Island, but it possessed a serene, enigmatic beauty. Verdant rice fields stretched out beneath golden sunlight, blending seamlessly with the remnants of palaces and fortifications of a civilization that had long vanished.
Their exploration led them to Buu Chau Hill, a prominent hill on the main road towards My Son, surrounded by lush greenery. From a distance, they could already see a small Gothic church perched prominently on the hilltop, starkly outlined against the clear blue sky. The steps leading upward, shaded by old trees, evoked a sense of tranquility mingled with mystery.
As they neared the church, Sari paused, captivated by the architecture. "This church feels so out of place here," she remarked, studying its pointed arches and the soaring bell tower. "Why build it on this particular hill? Something about it feels... off."
Spotting an elderly local resting beneath a nearby tree, Kien Quoc approached him without hesitation to inquire about the site's history. The old man, with a gentle smile, responded warmly to their curiosity.
"This hill was once sacred to the Cham people," he explained. "Long ago, there stood a Cham tower dedicated to their gods, especially Shiva. When the Vietnamese came, they destroyed the tower. Later, Western colonizers built this church directly on the Cham tower's foundation. As a child, my grandparents often told me stories of the Ma Hoi—ghosts of the ancient Cham."
Kien Quoc looked puzzled. "What exactly is Ma Hoi?"
A young man wearing glasses standing nearby interjected, explaining gently, "Ma Hoi, according to local legends in Quang Nam, is believed to be the spirits of the Cham people who once inhabited this land before the Vietnamese settled here. Stories describe the Ma Hoi as harmless but chilling entities, often associated with abandoned hills, ruined towers, or quiet moonlit fields. People have reported hearing sorrowful cries emanating from ancient Cham ruins, or glimpsing vague figures lingering in morning mists. Locals advise visitors to pass respectfully and quietly, believing the Ma Hoi dislike disturbances. Sometimes, these spirits even appear in dreams, whispering incomprehensible words, perhaps sharing the sorrowful tale of their lost kingdom."
Sari fell into deep thought. "Does this mean everything that belonged to Champa has vanished?"
The elderly man shook his head thoughtfully. "Not entirely. Beneath this soil, many Cham relics remain. Heavy rains sometimes uncover beautifully carved pieces of gold and silver, hinting at the hidden treasures beneath. As a child, I remember villagers often finding precious items. It's less frequent now, but who knows how much history still lies waiting beneath our feet?"
Kien Quoc and Sari stepped inside the church. The atmosphere was serene, with sunlight streaming gently through stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns on the wooden benches and creating an enchanting beauty. From their vantage point, they could see the distant sea and Cham Island. Yet, both couldn't shake the sense of contrast between the distinctly Western Gothic architecture and the Southeast Asian landscape surrounding them.
"It's unusual," Kien Quoc mused. "The church has its charm, but somehow it feels disconnected from the land around it." Looking around, he imagined history as layers upon layers, each era leaving behind traces that obscured those from before.
They walked to the rear of the church, descending stone steps into a lower area strewn with broken bricks and intricately carved stones—mute testimony to the Champa era. Sari reached down, picking up a fragment of brick still bearing a clearly visible lotus petal design.
"The Champa people created magnificent works," she said softly, her voice tinged with sorrow. "Now, we're left only with these fragments."
Descending the hill, they paused to speak further with the locals. An elderly woman shared, "When I was young, my father often told me this hill was once the holiest place for the Champa people. But when the Vietnamese arrived, they saw it as a symbol of Cham authority, so they destroyed it and built a pagoda instead. Later, when the French came, they replaced the pagoda with this church, claiming it symbolized God's power."
Sari nodded thoughtfully. "That's how history unfolds. Civilizations rise and replace each other, but the past often gets forgotten or buried beneath newer layers."
Kien Quoc gazed upward at the hilltop, where the church stood silhouetted against the fading evening light. His thoughts drifted to his ancestors who lived during Champa's golden age.
"Perhaps your great-grandmother once walked along this very hill," he remarked quietly, "yet now we can only glimpse a small piece of her story."
At midday, Kien Quoc and Sari rested on the cool grass beneath the shade of ancient trees, enjoying lunch boxes they had purchased from a nearby restaurant. The tranquil and refreshing environment seemed to ease the intensity of the summer heat.
As they relaxed, they reviewed the photos they'd taken of the renowned Tra Kieu altar at the Cham Museum. Sari, with her deep knowledge of Champa sculpture, eagerly shared insights with Kien Quoc.
Sari pointed to a photo of the altar, her eyes narrowed in analysis, "Look at these carvings; they closely resemble the reliefs at temples in Angkor or Bali."
Kien Quoc nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. All three cultures drew heavily from Indian artistic traditions. But Champa art has its own distinctive character—delicate yet remarkably free and organic."
The Tra Kieu Altar, a masterpiece of sculpture, captured their admiration with the intricate beauty of each detail. The Apsara dancers were rendered vividly, their soft, graceful lines evoking movement within a sacred dance. Their flowing garments seemed alive, arms curving elegantly like gentle waves, each slender finger crafted meticulously to convey perfect grace. The dancers' serene expressions, with half-closed eyes immersed in mysterious rhythms and lips curved into enigmatic smiles, heightened the altar's spiritual allure.
Every small detail—from earrings and necklaces to silk ribbons gracefully wrapped around their bodies—was depicted with precision, blending charm and sacredness seamlessly. Surrounding the altar were ornate decorative motifs and images of trees, birds, and animals, linking humanity closely with nature and creating a deeply spiritual atmosphere.
With passion, Sari continued, "Artworks like this don't just highlight the extraordinary talent of Champa craftsmen; they speak volumes about the brilliance of a civilization that once thrived here. The Tra Kieu Altar stands as an enduring icon of Southeast Asian sculpture."
Glancing around, they noticed the beautifully sculpted statues of Saints at the nearby church, creations by talented artisans from the Marble Mountains. Sari reflected thoughtfully, "Perhaps the spirit and skills of the ancient Champa craftsmen still flow through the veins of today's stonemasons."
Kien Quoc agreed, sensing profoundly the continuity between past and present, an invisible thread connecting generations of artisans across the ages.
In the gentle drizzle of the afternoon, Kien Quoc and Sari arrived at My Son. The rain had just ended, leaving behind fresh, crisp air infused with the earthy aroma of damp soil and the sharp scent of forest foliage. Pale sunlight pierced the lingering mist, bathing the ancient towers in a surreal, almost mystical glow.
Kien Quoc stood amazed at the sight of the brick towers emerging before him. In the soft post-rain light, their deep red bricks contrasted vividly against lush layers of moss, seemingly dyed by the passage of time.
Beside him, Sari observed intently, captivated by the extraordinary construction techniques of the ancient Champa. "These towers were built without mortar yet have endured over a thousand years," she murmured, astonished.
Approaching a prominent tower, they placed their hands on the bricks, marveling at how seamlessly they fit together without visible gaps. Rainwater accentuated the brick's distinctive dark-red hue, transforming the structure into a natural masterpiece freshly cleansed by the elements.
Sari traced her fingers gently over the intricate relief carvings. "They're incredibly refined," she whispered thoughtfully. "This is more than just art—it's an entire culture etched into stone."
The carvings depicted dragons, delicate lotus flowers, and graceful Apsara dancers whose gentle gestures brought life to the ancient stone. Pointing to a relief of Shiva with serene yet powerful features, Sari whispered, "These gods—they feel alive. Each sculpture seems to have a story, watching us quietly from centuries past."
Kien Quoc nodded silently, deeply appreciating the Champa artisans' skill and creativity. He touched the cool stone surface of a nearby deity, feeling the enduring power of meticulously etched lines.
The post-rain scenery of My Son possessed a striking beauty. Bushes surrounding the towers were lush, their vibrant greens intensified by the rain. A gentle stream trickled through the valley, its crystal-clear waters shimmering in the fading daylight. Birds flitted around cheerfully, as if welcoming the new visitors.
Sari tilted her head upward, eyes following wisps of cloud carried away by the breeze, revealing a heartbreakingly beautiful, pale yellow sky. They slowly ascended moss-covered stone steps toward the main tower.
Looking upward at ornate patterns that reached toward the heavens, Kien Quoc sighed deeply. "The Champa people built these towers as if to bring their souls closer to the gods. It's remarkable how they created such grandeur with merely bricks and stones."
Smiling softly, Sari replied, "They didn't just build towers; they created a place where the sacred and the ordinary coexist. Perhaps, in some sense, they never truly disappeared."
Pausing under a large, shady tree, they listened to raindrops dripping softly from leaves, creating gentle echoes around them. As they continued exploring, each cluster of towers revealed unique beauty and stories. Apart from the soft sound of their footsteps on the damp stone paths and the wind whispering through trees, silence enveloped the sanctuary.
As Sari captured photographs, Kien Quoc carefully observed each detail, determined to imprint My Son vividly in his memory.
Their quiet contemplation was soon disrupted by the arrival of a group of Vietnamese tourists. A tour guide energetically recounted the history of My Son, his voice loud against the tranquil backdrop. Yet amidst the explanation, they overheard someone complain, "Why bother visiting these old brick ruins? Wouldn't swimming at Cua Dai be more enjoyable?"
Hearing this, Kien Quoc shook his head quietly, reflecting on how essential it was to understand the context and significance of this place. To truly appreciate My Son, visitors should at least have some background knowledge of Champa culture. He noticed, however, the lack of informational displays or accessible resources around the site, feeling regretful. He believed strongly that if presented clearly, My Son would never be dismissed as mere "old brick ruins" but would be recognized rightly as a treasure preserving a brilliant civilization.
Amid the mystical surroundings, Apsara dancers emerged as if stepping out of the ancient Champa reliefs. Their sparkling garments, intricately embroidered, shimmered under the dim, multi-colored lights. The deep resonance of Ghi Nang drums echoed powerfully, each beat pulsing like the heartbeat of an ancient civilization brought back to life. Blending harmoniously, the haunting melody of the Saranai trumpet filled the air, drawing spectators into a sacred and mesmerizing realm.
Every movement of the dancers was elegant and fluid—their arms flowing gracefully like waves, their rhythmic steps perfectly synchronized with the drumbeats. Eyes half-closed, they appeared immersed deeply in the sacred dance, reviving ancient rituals once performed to honor Champa deities. Their delicate gestures seemed to trace the shapes of grass, trees, sky, and earth, while their bare feet gently touched the ground, reconnecting them vividly with the distant past.
Soft lamplight illuminated their bronze skin, floral crowns, and gleaming jewelry adorning their necks, wrists, and waists, enhancing their fairy-like appearance. Every swirl, each tilt of the head, and every delicate touch of the fingertips conveyed an air of mystery and enchantment, evoking the timeless images of Apsaras immortalized in the carvings of the Tra Kieu altar and My Son towers.
As drums and trumpets quickened, the atmosphere grew electrifying, building to a breathtaking climax. The dancers twirled with perfect grace, their skirts unfurling like petals under moonlight. The audience watched in awe-struck silence, sensing not merely a performance, but the living spirit of an ancient culture revived.
On stage, these modern-day Apsaras not only danced but breathed fresh life into Champa history, embodying its essence with each rhythmic movement. As daylight gradually faded, My Son Sanctuary transformed into a realm of twilight magic, merging past and present seamlessly.
Kien Quoc and Sari stood silently, gazing once more at the ancient towers veiled in thin mist. Their hearts were filled not just with admiration for Champa's artistic achievements, but with profound respect for this treasured heritage, a guardian of sacred narratives from a brilliant yet vanished civilization.
A sudden afternoon rain gently ended their exploration of My Son, guiding them quietly back into the present.
Kien Quoc and Sari decided to retreat to a nearby small hotel to rest and absorb the unique atmosphere of this sacred land. Settling into their wooden room, Kien Quoc playfully whispered to Sari, "Who knows, maybe we'll encounter Ma Hoi tonight?"
Sari jumped slightly, shaking her head vigorously, "Don't scare me! I'm already nervous enough."
The hotel, designed in traditional Vietnamese style with wooden interiors, made Kien Quoc feel slightly regretful. He thought that if it were built in the traditional Champa style—using bamboo, thatched roofs, and earthen walls—it would blend more harmoniously with the My Son heritage site. Furthermore, the hotel staff seemed to know very little about the sanctuary itself; instead of merely providing accommodation, they should act as cultural guides, enriching visitors' experiences.
That evening, Kien Quoc and Sari shared a romantic tea session in a poetic ambiance infused with the fragrance of incense, discussing their experiences at My Son.
Reflecting deeply, Kien Quoc asked, "I still wonder why Champa towers always face East?"
Sari paused thoughtfully. "According to an old text I read about Indian architecture, temples face East because it's considered the direction of enlightenment—the direction from which divine energy comes."
"But then why does Vishnu's temple face west?" Kien Quoc wondered aloud.
"In Hindu legend, Vishnu resides on the cosmic ocean, facing eastward toward the other gods. Therefore, temples dedicated to Vishnu face west to reflect this positioning and maintain cosmic balance," Sari explained.
Impressed by her knowledge, Kien Quoc then asked curiously, "In My Son and other similar sites, there are many linga and yoni symbols. But why don't East Asian cultures influenced by India worship such direct symbols?"
Sari chuckled, thinking carefully before responding, "That's a challenging question." Taking a sip of tea, she elaborated, "East Asian cultures prefer abstraction and symbolism. Instead of directly worshipping physical forms like the linga and yoni, they use symbols such as dragons, phoenixes, and the yin-yang or tai chi diagrams to represent cosmic balance and harmony. The lotus flower symbolizes purity in Buddhism; dragons and phoenixes represent yang and yin energies respectively, embodying a subtle, indirect form of cosmic symbolism."
She continued, "In contrast, cultures directly influenced by Hinduism—like Champa, Khmer, or Bali—openly embrace these symbols. For them, the union of masculine and feminine represents not only procreation but also sacred spiritual energy, evident in rituals and sculptures at places like Khajuraho."
Kien Quoc smiled affectionately. "The ancient people were quite bold in their expression, weren't they?"
Sari smiled softly, leaning her head gently on his shoulder.
"Tell me more about the Apsara dance," Kien Quoc requested warmly.
"I've wanted to share this," Sari smiled enthusiastically. "Notice the dancers' hand gestures—they're not only beautiful but deeply symbolic, closely connected to the lotus, an important motif in Southeast Asian culture."
"What's the connection between lotus flowers and the dance?" Kien Quoc asked, intrigued.
Sari demonstrated gently, raising her hand, fingers lightly closed. "This is a closed lotus bud, representing hidden beauty or potential."
"Like a lotus flower not yet bloomed?" Kien Quoc asked.
"Exactly," she replied, slowly opening her fingers. "As the flower blooms, it symbolizes maturity and fulfillment."
"And when fully bloomed?" he asked.
She gently curved her fully opened fingers. "This represents the lotus fully open, often used in dances as offerings to the gods."
"And the withering lotus?" Kien Quoc continued thoughtfully.
Sari curled her fingers downward gracefully, illustrating. "It symbolizes the natural cycle of rebirth and the act of letting go."
Kien Quoc nodded, absorbing every word. "The ancients conveyed profound meaning even through subtle gestures."
Sari smiled, eyes thoughtful. "Indeed. The Apsara dance is more than art; it's a prayer embodying purity, transcendence, and harmony between humanity and nature, the mundane and the sacred."
"It makes you reflect," Kien Quoc mused. "Our modern superficiality often leads us to overlook these deeper values."
"Yes," Sari agreed, smiling softly. "Oh, and remind me tomorrow—I want to save My Son's exact coordinates so others can find this incredible place.—I want to make sure others can find this incredible place easily."
That night, Kien Quoc and Sari decided to go to bed early. They planned to rise before dawn to witness the stunning sunrise over the My Son valley, anticipating how the first light would gently illuminate the ancient towers and fill the area with its mysterious charm.
Both slept soundly. That night, Kien Quoc dreamed again of the mysterious woman. This time, she wore traditional Champa attire, elegantly draped in a charming sarong. She looked directly at him, her voice was gentle yet mysterious as she whispered, "I'll see you tomorrow at noon."
Kien Quoc woke suddenly, his heart racing. The woman's words lingered clearly in his mind. He glanced at his watch. It read exactly 4:00 a.m. Was it merely a dream… or a sign of what lay ahead?
Determined to keep to their plans, he and Sari quickly got ready, ate a simple breakfast, and eagerly returned to My Son. Eager to witness the enchanting sunrise over the valley once again.