A sanctuary. For women like me. Women forgotten by time and family. Women who had poured themselves out until there was nothing left. Women still full of stories, songs, and skill. A place where we weren’t burdens—but honored.

The next three months were the hardest—and most beautiful—I’d ever worked.

I found a narrow, dusty shop for rent on a tree-lined street. It was old, falling apart, but charming—reminded me of old Saigon. I hired a local carpenter to fix the entrance. I painted the inside walls myself—soft lavender and cream. I bought used furniture and polished every piece until it shone. I named it Floating Clouds—a haven for drifting hearts.

The first day, only two people showed up: an elderly man wanting hot water for his noodles, and a teenage girl who sat silently with headphones, then left without ordering.

But I didn’t mind.

By the second week, word began to spread.

Not fast. But steady.

I served lotus tea in porcelain cups. Baked black sesame cookies with peanuts and palm sugar. Played old Trịnh Công Sơn records softly in the background. Outside, I placed a handwritten sign: