My family lived in An Phu commune, Tan Loc district, it was very poor so we had to share rice with fish sauce. My mother died early, my father remarried, and my stepmother took over the family for just two months before she started calculating:
“Han is 19 years old, very beautiful, let me find a place to marry her into a rich family. This whole family will benefit.”
I heard this and my hands trembled, I didn’t dare to object. In the end, he sold me as a woman to Mr. Tin, the owner of a construction materials company in the city – a man over sixty years old, gray-haired but with a thick wallet, his first wife was Mrs. Mai, famous for her power and cruelty.
On the day I returned home for the ceremony, Mrs. Mai from head to toe and sneered:
“You are young, you probably only know how to entertain, but can you keep her?”
I gritted my teeth and endured. Mr. Tin’s house was as big as a mansion, with an iron gate, a bonsai garden, and his own team of servants. But every night I heard Mrs. Mai scolding me, and Mr. Tin was coughing in his room. I could do nothing but take care of her, cook porridge, do laundry, and obey without daring to argue.
Three years passed, Mr. Tin suddenly discovered that he had terminal liver cancer. Mrs. Mai was crying, and I knelt beside him, confused – not knowing whether to pity or be afraid.
One afternoon, when the rain was pouring, Mr. Tin called the two of us Tin in the room, his voice low:
“Mai… Han… listen to me carefully. Before I die, there is one thing I must leave behind… no one is allowed to reveal it.”
He motioned for me to open the safe at the head of the bed. Inside was not money, but a stack of land use right certificates, bank documents and… a small black USB stick.
Mr. Tin whispered, each word cut off:
“This property… is not in my name… but in someone else’s. If I die, one of you will be responsible for it if it is revealed…”
Mrs. Mai turned pale:
“What are you saying? This property is ours!”
Mr. Tin closed his eyes and snorted:
“No… it belongs to someone else… to someone I… killed 20 years ago…”
Mrs. Mai and I were both stunned.
I plugged the USB into the computer with a shiver. Inside was a series of secretly filmed videos from an old construction site, recording Mr. Tin and several men burying something in the cement floor, accompanied by a faint audio clip:
“Hurry up! No one will know – it’s your brother!”
Mrs. Mai shouted:
“Are you crazy! Who did you bury there?!”
Mr. Tin laughed dryly, his voice hoarse as if from the dead:
“My brother… he took over the company… so I had to act. All this property is in his name – I borrowed the papers to make it legal… But if I die and the police find out… you two have no way to live.”
He snorted a few times and then died, leaving us stunned in the cold room.
Three days later, before the funeral was over, the police raided the villa. They said they had received an anonymous complaint that someone had buried a body at Mr. Tin’s construction site 20 years ago.
As the excavation team began to dig, I stood back, my heart almost stopping. In the old concrete layer, a human skeleton was found, and next to it was a business card with the name… “Mai Tin – Director of Long Phat Company” — which was the name of Mrs. Mai’s husband, not Mr. Tin.
Mrs. Mai and I fell together.
When the story broke, people realized that
Mr. Tin had actually died 20 years ago. The person we had been with all this time was his real brother, the one who had stolen his title, property, and life.
And what was even more terrifying — on that USB, on the last day there was an unopened video:
“If anyone sees this… they will know that I have been living in my brother’s place for the past 20 years. But the one who accused me – was the first wife…”
The policeman turned to me:
“You are the only one living in his place. What do you know about this?”
I just remained silent, my tears flowing. Outside, the sound of rain falling on the tin roof of the villa, mixed with the fragrance of incense — as if Mr. Tin’s soul still lingered around, waiting for a final confession.