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\u2019t burdens\u2014but honored.<\/p>\n
The next three months were the hardest\u2014and most beautiful\u2014I\u2019d ever worked.<\/p>\n
I found a narrow, dusty shop for rent on a tree-lined street. It was old, falling apart, but charming\u2014reminded me of old Saigon. I hired a local carpenter to fix the entrance. I painted the inside walls myself\u2014soft lavender and cream. I bought used furniture and polished every piece until it shone. I named it\u00a0Floating Clouds<\/em>\u2014a haven for drifting hearts.<\/p>\n
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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.<\/p>\n
But I didn\u2019t mind.<\/p>\n
By the second week, word began to spread.<\/p>\n
Not fast. But steady.<\/p>\n
I served lotus tea in porcelain cups. Baked black sesame cookies with peanuts and palm sugar. Played old Tr\u1ecbnh C\u00f4ng S\u01a1n records softly in the background. Outside, I placed a handwritten sign:<\/p>\n
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