Minh awoke with a start, his limbs feeling foreign and delicate beneath a faded linen blanket. Confusion clouded his mind as he stared at slender hands, the nails short but neat, resting atop a rough cotton sheet. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the flickering flame of an oil lamp that painted everything in warm gold and deep amber. He struggled to recall the events of the previous night—a walk in the royal gardens, the glint of a stranger’s eyes, and an odd, prickling sensation before everything went black.
Minh staggered to the mirror, heart pounding. The reflection showed a young woman’s face—soft, with wide, startled eyes and a mouth he did not recognize. Panic surged as he touched his cheek, realizing the truth in the glass: he was no longer himself, but Tấm, a mere village girl whose name he remembered hearing in passing. "This must be a nightmare," he whispered, voice trembling and strangely high. The memory of the witch’s curse, her cryptic promise, flickered in his mind: seven days, and then all would be restored.
Minh clumsily fumbled with a worn ao dai, struggling to tie the sash and balance on borrowed feet. Every step felt unsteady, the swish of the dress and the pinch of shoes a constant reminder of his predicament. Villagers eyed Tấm curiously, some offering gentle greetings, others whispering behind their hands. The world pressed in with expectations—modesty, grace, silent obedience—all alien to him.
Minh moved stiffly in a bridal ensemble—layers of brocade, a corset cinching his breath, heavy earrings that tugged at delicate earlobes. He glanced at the prince, who now wore Minh’s own face and seemed just as lost behind a brave smile. The prince leaned in, voice low. "We will endure this, together," he murmured, squeezing Minh’s trembling hand. The ceremony unfolded in a blur of incense and chanting, duty outweighing every personal desire.
Minh hurried through the garden, heart pounding with hope as he fingered the magical earrings—his only ticket home. Just as the witch began her incantation, a commotion erupted. Princess Linh, resplendent in battle armor, strode forward, her eyes blazing. "Those earrings belong to my kingdom. Return them, or face war," she demanded, her voice ringing with cold authority. Torn between self-preservation and the threat of conflict, Minh drew a shaky breath and unclasped the earrings, pressing them into the princess’s waiting palm.
In the quiet aftermath, Minh sat beside the prince, their hands entwined atop a silk cushion. The prince’s affection was gentle, patient—offering comfort in the face of irrevocable change. Minh felt his resistance soften, warmth blooming where only confusion and resentment had lived before. "Perhaps… I can learn to be happy here," he admitted, voice soft as morning light.
Minh, now fully embracing life as Tấm, found peace in the quiet rituals of palace life and in the shared looks with the prince, who loved him not for his name, but for the spirit that survived transformation. Though fate had rewritten the story he thought was his, Minh discovered that love, given freely and found unexpectedly, could make any form beautiful.
