Four Nuns Missing in 1980 – 28 Years Later, A Priest Finds Life Underground

In 1980, four nuns living in a small community in Northern California suddenly vanished, without a message, without a trace. They had just arrived at a remote chapel in the forest for a retreat, and then never returned. For the next 28 years, all that remained were vague theories and silent pain.

But then, on the exact day of the 28th anniversary, a priest—who was also the biological brother of one of the four nuns—returned to the place where their footprints were last seen. He did not expect that trip would lead him to a horrifying discovery. A secret buried for nearly three decades underground, and a life that had never been extinguished. That morning, sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of Saint Anne’s Church in Elden Hollow, creating shimmering bands of color on the wooden pews worn shiny by time.

I stood on the pulpit, raising my hand to make the sign of the cross, my lips whispering the final prayer of the service. “May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” The whole church responded in unison: “Amen.” Even though so many years had passed, those words still made my heart ache. I am Phuc, Father Nguyen Van Phuc.

It has been nearly 30 years since my younger sister, Sister Tuyet, along with three other nuns, disappeared without a trace. That incident became an unhealed wound in my heart, in this parish community, and on this gloomy land of Northern California. Every year I still hold a memorial service for them, but lately, I no longer wait for a miracle. Perhaps I am just holding on to what little is left.

A ritual, a memory, an image that does not fade in memory. When the ceremony ended, I stood at the main door, shaking hands with each parishioner leaving the church. They have aged with time, just like me. There were also a few younger faces, but their eyes spoke what their mouths dared not say. The disappearance had become a story half-believed, half-doubted, a ghost in the village.

Mrs. Cung Hoa, surely over 80 this year, grasped my hand tightly with her wrinkled hands. “I still remember Sister Hien teaching the children catechism, as gentle as a mother.” I could only nod and smile sadly. Sister Hien went missing at the age of 68; she had dedicated her whole life to God, only to disappear in silence. No one knew what happened. When the church was left with only me and the sound of the wind rushing through the windows, I walked slowly back to the office in the back.

The room was small, simple, with an old desk, a bookshelf, and a window overlooking the church cemetery. Here, I could allow myself to be weak, with no need to hide the pain. I slumped into the chair, burying my face in my hands. The dignified figure of the priest vanished, leaving only a brother who had still not found his sister after nearly three decades.

“Why, God?” I whispered, a choke in my throat. “I have served You all my life. Tuyet… the child was only 23 years old. She lived well, she believed in God. Why did You lead her onto that path and then let her vanish like that? Did I do something wrong?” I knew those words were sinful, filled with doubt, but I am also human.

Every year on this exact day, I sit here crying like a child. My tears fall not because I lost faith, but because I believed too much. Believed to the point where I could not bear the silence of God. I opened the drawer and pulled out a small wooden box; inside were old photos yellowed by time.

The first was a photo of Tuyet on the day of her final vows. Her face was radiant, her eyes bright as if she wanted to embrace the whole world. I remember clearly that day I stood next to her in the ceremony, my hand on her shoulder, my heart full of pride and perhaps a little anxiety. I was the one who kindled the faith in her. Since she was 16, she loved the Bible, loved stories of sacrifice and charity.

I was the one who guided her to follow the religious path. If I hadn’t done that, would she still be alive? Maybe she would be a teacher, a wife, a mother. I made the sign of the cross immediately to push back that thought. No, I am not allowed to question God’s plan, no matter how painful. I put Tuyet’s photo away and took out the second one.

The last photo taken of all four nuns. Sister Hien, Sister Hong, Sister Bich, and Sister Tuyet. They were sitting on a wooden bench in front of the Saint Dinas Chapel, the forest behind them looking as if it wanted to swallow everything. Sister Hien and Sister Hong had their hands lightly clasped, their faces gentle, while Sister Bich smiled softly, sitting slightly tilted. And Tuyet, my sister, her eyes were still as bright as the day she took her final vows.

This photo was taken by a tourist a few days before they disappeared. They went to that chapel for a short retreat. Two days of prayer, fasting, and meditation before the feast of a female saint whose name I don’t remember. In addition, they were assigned the task of evaluating the chapel to see if it should be renovated or closed permanently. Tuyet, because of her meticulous nature, was chosen to record the condition of the building. I remember the days after they went missing.

Police, search dogs, volunteers—everyone participated in the search in the Trinity Forest. They turned over every tree stump, every forest stream, even the mountains, but found not a single trace—no clothes, no personal belongings, no bloodstains, as if they had dissolved into the air. The authorities suggested they might have encountered wild animals—black bears are not rare in this forest—but there were no animal remains, no scene, no signs whatsoever.

Everyone knew, and yet no one completely believed that theory. The villagers started gossiping, suggesting that maybe they ran away, abandoning their vows. I tried my best to extinguish those cruel words, but I knew people’s trust had limits. I looked at Tuyet’s photo again. She would never do that.

Never leave without telling me. Never. I began to look more closely at the background of the photo. The small Saint Dinas Chapel with a white wooden roof, a simple bell tower, nestled in the forest. It had been a very long time since I returned there. Partly because of the pain, partly because the chapel had been closed since the incident.

But today, something inside me urged—not because of memories, and not exactly because of the memorial service—but a feeling like a soft call in my heart, faint but clear, a whisper that I needed to go back to that place, that there was something left unexplained. I left everything behind, put the photo in my shirt pocket, took my Bible and rosary, and locked the room door.

As I drove out of the church parking lot, my heart was strangely quiet—no longer afraid, no longer holding blind hope, just one thing: I needed to return to the last place my sister stood. And if God had something He wanted me to see, may He show the way. I drove out of Elden Hollow while the sun was still shining gently. The road leading up to the Shasta-Trinity forest wound like a long ribbon covered in tree shadows.

On both sides were meadows, then farms, and gradually the dense forest began to take over the view. I had traveled this road countless times. When I was young, when I first became a priest, and especially during the months searching for Tuyet after she disappeared. Back then, the passenger seat beside me was piled high with flyers printed with my sister’s face, maps, a tape recorder, all sorts of fragile hopes.

Now it was empty, just the photo of the four nuns tucked in my breast pocket like a strange compass. About an hour and a half later, I reached the bordering forest. I slowed down as I neared the turn leading to Saint Dinas, at least according to my memory. But instead of the old dirt road of years past, in front of me was a large, sturdy iron gate with a “No Entry – Private Property” sign. Behind it was a paved driveway, planted with ornamental flowers, hedges trimmed as evenly as a ruler. I stared blankly at the old photo.

The distant mountain range was the same; the pine trees on the horizon were in the right position. This was definitely the place. But the chapel had disappeared. I got out of the car, looked through the fence—not a single sign of the chapel that once stood here. No foundation, no cross, no memorial stone. Only a sprawling lawn planted with expensive ornamental trees that did not blend in with the forest scenery at all.

An uncomfortable feeling began to rise in me, as if someone had intentionally erased everything. I pulled out my phone to find the number of Mr. Hai, the former caretaker of Saint Dinas Chapel. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, but I hoped he was still in the area. Luckily, after a few rings, someone picked up. “Hello.” “Yes. Hello, Mr. Hai.”

“I am Father Phuc from Saint Anne’s Parish in Elden Hollow.” He was silent for a few seconds, then recognized my voice. “Ah, Father Phuc, it’s been so long. What’s the matter?” “Yes, I am standing in front of where the Saint Dinas Chapel used to be, but I don’t see the chapel anywhere.” This time he was silent longer. “Ah, that’s right, that chapel was torn down a long time ago. After the sisters went missing, fewer people came for mass.”

“The bell tower cracked and almost crushed a volunteer. The diocese saw it was unsafe so they closed it, and then sold it to a man named Si Dan. He demolished the chapel completely.” I felt a chill run through me hearing this. “I didn’t know anything about the land sale or demolition.” “You aren’t the only one, Father,” Mr. Hai said with a hint of regret in his voice. “Sold in a hurry at a cheap price, and that man paid cash as fast as lightning.”

“Si Dan.” I repeated the name; it sounded unpleasant. “Is he still here?” “Yes. He lives on that property. The main house is deep inside. But to be honest, this man is strange, Father. Rarely leaves the house, doesn’t socialize with anyone. They say he’s difficult, doesn’t like religion.” I sighed, “Mr. Hai, thank you. I will visit you later. I just needed to come here to revisit some memories.”

Before I hung up, he added, “Father, if you need to see the old items from the chapel—the cross, the lectionary, the prayer benches—I still kept a few things. You can come, and I’ll give them to you.” I was moved. “Yes, I will stop by, but let me try to meet Mr. Si first.” I drove around to find a way to approach the property from another side as Mr. Hai directed. This road circled behind the land; it was deserted, narrow, and full of tree shadows. Through a gap in the dense forest, I saw a large three-story villa made of wood and stone. Broad balconies, luxurious architecture, but standing stark and lonely in the middle of the forest. The feeling was both strange and somewhat spine-chilling.

I stopped the car in the vicinity where there was a path leading in. In front of the door, I saw a tall man with gray hair, wearing sportswear, holding a leash leading a huge dog. When he saw me walking up, he stared, and then, seeing my clerical collar, his face changed color—not surprise, but distinct annoyance.

“Who are you?” he asked bluntly without a greeting. I smiled slightly, “Hello, I am Father Phuc, a priest from the nearby Saint Anne’s Parish. I came to revisit the place that used to be Saint Dinas Chapel.” “That chapel was destroyed long ago; there is nothing left to visit,” he said in a gruff voice. “I know, but this is a place with many memories for me and my sister. She was one of the four nuns who went missing here.”

He didn’t blink. “I have no connection to that matter. I just bought the land legally.” “I am not blaming you at all. I am just… I’m just curious why there is no trace left, no memorial plaque, nothing at all.” “I didn’t like the bell. I lost sleep because of it. Now it’s quieter, that’s all.” I tried to stay calm.

“Church bells are a beautiful tradition. It is not just a sound but a reminder to our souls that…” “Please!” he interrupted, “I don’t need a sermon. I don’t like being disturbed. Leave before I call the police.” I nodded. “I understand, I apologize for disturbing you. May peace be with you.” He slammed the door shut with a bang.

I turned and walked back to the car, my heart heavy. There was something about Mr. Si that wasn’t simply a hatred of priests; it was as if he was hiding something. I didn’t intend to return, but as I drove past the old property, I looked toward the forest where the chapel once stood. Suddenly, the radio in the car turned on, even though I was certain I had turned it off.

A segment of Gregorian chant rang out—slow, cold, sacred, as if coming from another world. I slammed on the brakes, my heart pounding. The chanting music vanished after a few seconds, and the radio went silent again. I tried turning it on and off, but nothing happened. Then I felt a familiar sensation that used to come to me during deep prayer—a cold shiver down my spine, but not from fear; rather, like being gently touched on the soul.

I looked toward Mr. Si’s fence, where the chapel used to be. Then I turned the car around. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew for certain I needed to go back there. Something was calling me, and I couldn’t ignore it.

I turned the car around and parked near the high iron gate, towering like a cold wall blocking me from my memories. The “No Entry” sign hung right in the middle, letters red like dried blood. I sat still in the car, my hands still trembling on the steering wheel. In my head, the chanting from earlier still echoed, not loud but haunting. That was not a randomly played song; it was Gregorian chant, a sacred sound that only those who have lived in a monastery, who have recited the hours, can understand how deep it is.

And I had turned off the radio from Elden Hollow, I was certain. I whispered a short prayer: “If this is a sign, please God, lead the way.” Then I opened the car door, stepped out across the grass verge, and proceeded along the fence. I didn’t intend to trespass. At that moment, I simply thought I just needed to find a high spot to look inside, to gaze again at the place Tuyet once stood, once prayed. That was all.

But the forest was not flat; there were places where the earth rose, tree roots stretched out, and there was a section of the old fence that was uneven due to the terrain. I slipped because I tripped on a root, my hand grabbing an iron bar of the fence to keep my balance, inadvertently leaning my whole body on a weak spot. There was a crack, and a section of the iron bar came loose from the cement foundation, creating a gap large enough for a person to squeeze through.

I stared blankly at the gap, my heart full of conflict. I didn’t mean to break in, truly I didn’t, but no one saw, and the surroundings were silent enough to hear the wind whistling through the branches. I let out a long breath and whispered, “Please forgive me.” Then I squeezed through the gap into the land that was formerly the old Saint Dinas Chapel.

Beneath my feet was a layer of grass trimmed perfectly even, but there remained a feeling of something unnatural. The bushes, the flower clusters were too perfect, as if they wanted to hide something rather than to beautify. I walked softly; instinctively, my eyes darted around looking for a familiar point, but everything was alien. Then I saw, amidst the low ornamental plants, something metal lying flat on the ground.

I approached and parted the grass; it was an iron ventilation grate, old and rusty, with a classic scroll pattern, completely out of place with the modern style surrounding it. I knelt down, lowering my ear to listen. At first, there was nothing. I almost gave up when a vague sound rang out—it was singing, unclear words, but the rhythm was like Gregorian chant.

Then, as if someone coughed lightly, I shuddered. Impossible. I pressed closer. This time it was a human voice, faint as if echoing from somewhere very far away. I stood up abruptly, pulled out my phone, and called 911. My voice was hoarse but clear: “I am a Priest. I am near the old Saint Dinas Chapel grounds. It is now Mr. Si Dan’s land. I hear human voices from a ventilation shaft underground; someone might be trapped down there.”

On the other end of the line, there was a moment of silence, then the dispatcher asked: “Are you sure it is a real human voice?” “Yes, I can’t explain it, but there are people down there. I heard them singing and then coughing.” The female dispatcher was still skeptical, but her voice softened. “Okay, Father, please wait near your vehicle; we will send police.” I hung up, walked back to the gap in the fence, and squeezed out.

Just as I got back to the car, I called Mr. Hai. I told him everything, from the vent to the singing and the cough. He was stunned. “Father, what are you saying? A vent? That chapel in the old days didn’t have a basement, built only on a cement foundation; there was definitely no space underneath.” I gripped the phone tightly; if so, then it must be something someone built later, after Mr. Si bought it.

Mr. Hai said immediately, “I’m coming right now, I’m 10 minutes away.” I stood by the car, hand telling the beads of my rosary, lips whispering prayers. My mind was spinning like a pinwheel. If there really were people down there, then what? Who? Why were they there? And the craziest thing… Tuyet, after 28 years? No? Impossible, but if… The sound of police sirens rang out; a white and blue patrol car arrived.

Two police officers stepped out, an older man with gray hair, the other younger with a sharp face. I recounted everything, carefully, calmly. I didn’t hide the fact that I had accidentally trespassed on the land, only saying I couldn’t sit still when I heard human voices from underground. The police didn’t blame me. They said if it’s a rescue situation, that is the highest priority.

I led them and Mr. Hai to the ventilation grate; we all held our breath to listen. And then the singing came again, still Gregorian but weaker, broken as if the singer was about to run out of strength. Then coughing again, a dry, deep cough. The older police officer turned to me, his eyes solemn. “We will handle this. Father and Mr. Hai, please wait at the car.”

Now it was an official investigation. I nodded, my heart beating like a drum; everything felt like stepping across a threshold from which there was no return. There were people down there. Someone was alive. And for me, instinct told me that this was not a coincidence; it was destiny and the beginning of the truth about to be revealed after 28 years of waiting.

I never thought there would be a day I sat in a car right at the edge of the old Saint Dinas grounds, hand clutching a rosary, eyes watching the police with binoculars, while my heart was not at peace for a single minute. Outside, the forest was still quiet, the afternoon began to fade, sunlight filtering through the canopy was only dappled, but inside me, the air thickened as if something heavy was pressing down, both suspenseful and fearful.

Mr. Hai sat silently beside me, occasionally turning to look at me and then looking toward Mr. Si Dan’s gate. I knew he was trying to stay calm for me, but his eyes were also flooded with worry. Decades working as the chapel caretaker, he understood this place better than anyone. And now, the thing gradually revealing itself in the darkness did not belong to memory but was a secret buried for too long.

The police arrived in full force: an ambulance waiting near the main road, a forensics vehicle, and two officers, Lieutenant Thanh and Lieutenant Minh, returned. This time with an emergency search warrant, they didn’t wait long, simply explaining briefly to Mr. Si and then proceeding according to the law. I heard through the radio Mr. Si screaming from his yard: “You are trespassing on private property! I will sue all of you!”

But no one stopped. Mr. Hai and I were allowed to watch from a distance, via a phone screen transmitting live images from the camera mounted on Lieutenant Thanh’s uniform. They started from the main house, that three-story wooden villa, searching every room, basement, and storage area, finding nothing suspicious, only bookshelves, expensive furniture, foreign wine cabinets, the smell of pine wood fragrant but cold.

Then they left there, walking along the small path leading deep into the forest, where the Saint Dinas Chapel once stood. I strained my eyes to follow every step on the screen. They reached a small wooden shed, with an old tin roof, looking normal like any other shed. But then, while inspecting, a policeman dropped a wrench on the floor.

A clack rang out, but it didn’t sound like solid wood; it sounded hollow, echoing like an empty floor underneath. I sat bolt upright. Lieutenant Minh knelt down and tapped to test it. The floor in this area had been newly re-laid and sounded hollow. They began to pry up the floorboards, and then a stone staircase appeared, going deep into the earth. No one said anything for a few seconds; even I, watching through the screen, choked on my breath.

Beneath that tiny shed was a secret passage. “I don’t know anything about that.” Mr. Si’s voice echoed through the microphone. “Must be from the time before I bought it.” No one believed him. They took flashlights and went down. The staircase was narrow, made of stone with wear marks in the center, proving that people had walked up and down it many times. At the end of the stairs was a heavy wooden door, hinges rusted.

Next to it was a stone niche, holding an old iron key. They unlocked it; the door groaned a hoarse sound and then slowly opened. Inside was a long tunnel, stone walls, supported by wooden beams, cold air billowing out. They walked in; the tunnel extended more than a hundred meters, leading to a small space, a dungeon beneath the earth.

The light from the flashlights shone on a primitive room: stone walls, earthen floor, a thin mattress, an old wooden table with a few items—cups, spoons, candles almost burnt out, a few pieces of dry bread. And then they saw a woman lying curled up on the mattress, so thin she was just skin and bones, gray hair cut short, hands clutching a rosary made of cloth string and wood, eyes half-open. Her face was gaunt but still held familiar features. Lieutenant Thanh bent down and gently asked, “What is your name?” A moment later, those dry, cracked lips moved.

“Tuyet… Sister Tuyet…” I dropped the phone, covering my face with my hands, unable to utter a sound. Mr. Hai went silent, then he whispered, “Oh God, it is her.” I jumped up, running toward the fence. An officer on duty blocked me. I begged, “Please. I am her brother. I am Father Phuc. I have waited 28 years. Just let me see her once.”

The officer looked at me for a second, then radioed in. A few minutes later, he nodded. “Father, you can stand near the ambulance area but cannot go into the tunnel. They are bringing her up now.” I stood there, my heart feeling like it would explode. A few minutes later, from the shed, they carried out a stretcher; on it was a tiny body, skeletal, with almost no life left.

But when she passed me, her eyes opened slightly, and I saw Tuyet in those eyes. Though exhausted, that gaze was still bright. She looked at me, her lips moving, “I understood immediately even though I didn’t hear clearly.” She said: “God did not abandon me.” I collapsed, crying as I had never cried before. Behind her, they brought out another stretcher. This time it was a body that had dried out, just bones wrapped in an old blanket. The police said it was Sister Bich. The truth was gradually becoming clear.

Mr. Si was handcuffed on the spot, his face pale white, no longer bearing the arrogant look from the morning. As he passed me, he suddenly turned and spat in my face, then hissed: “Father, are you satisfied yet?” I said nothing, just wiped my face and whispered: “I am happy because I get to suffer humiliation just like the One I serve.” He was dragged away forever. The ambulance left the old grounds.

Mr. Hai and I followed closely behind; inside me was emptiness and pain. But there was a small light, the light of hope, of a faith never extinguished for nearly three decades. Sister Tuyet is alive; my sister has returned. I sat in the hospital waiting room, hands clutching the rosary, eyes staring into the empty space in front of me, but in reality, my mind was stuck somewhere between the past and the present.

On one side was the image of Tuyet, my sister lying on the stretcher, skin and bones, her eyes still holding a last bit of spirit when she saw me. On the other side was the shadow of Mr. Si Dan being handcuffed and dragged away, his face full of resentment, as if he were the victim. For so many years, I thought maybe my sister had died in the forest or, worse, was swept away in an accident no one knew about.

But I never, never imagined a truth so cruel. That my sister was imprisoned right under the ground, just a few dozen meters from where I once stood praying, that she lived like a shadow, no light, no freedom, only faith as her sole support. The phone rang; it was Lieutenant Thanh.

I picked up, my heart beating fast. “Father Phuc, I am calling to report the initial investigation results. We searched Mr. Si’s entire house and found a diary that is quite long and difficult to read, both in content and spirit.” I gripped the phone: “I’m listening.” “He wrote a lot. From the late 70s, starting with a hatred for the church.

The reason is tragic. His mother abandoned him as a child and then went to become a nun in another state. He never saw her again. Growing up with his grandmother, a radical Catholic. According to what he wrote, his grandmother beat and taught him with the rod, forcing him to learn catechism as if it were a punishment. From there, he bred hatred.”

I closed my eyes, listening to every word. A part of me felt pity, but pity could not erase the crime. He especially hated nuns, believing they betrayed motherhood, abandoning their divine function as mothers to chase after the invisible. When he knew the group of nuns from your parish came to retreat at Saint Dinas Chapel at a time when no one else was around, he saw it as an opportunity, planning step by step.

I swallowed hard: “How did he do it?” “He pretended to be a friendly local, bringing cakes and tea to say hello. The tea had a mild sedative. The two older nuns, Sister Hien and Sister Hong, drank first, got tired, and went to lie down. The two younger nuns, Sister Bich and your sister, were taking care of the other two when he returned a second time. This time he was more fully prepared. He subdued them one by one.

Sister Tuyet resisted the strongest, almost escaping out the door, but he knocked her out and injected a sedative.” I sat there, my hands hanging loose, a feeling of helplessness overwhelming me. My sister, in that moment, had almost escaped, but in the end was still pulled back into the darkness. He took each person down to the basement through a side door, a passage he had dug himself many months before.

After imprisoning them, he returned to the chapel, burned everything—bed sheets, clothes, books—scrubbed the floor with chemicals, destroying every trace. By the next morning, when the first parishioner came to look for the sisters, the chapel was clean as new, not a single trace. I whispered: “And no one suspected.” At that time, investigations were still simple; they searched the whole forest, turned over every path, but no one thought of an underground bunker, nor did anyone think a wealthy man like Mr. Si would be involved.

He bought the land about two years later through an intermediary company using cash, tore down the chapel, and renovated it gradually. From the outside looking in, everything looked like a hermit who loved nature, nothing suspicious. I gripped the rosary tight. “What about the other three?” “The diary clearly records that the two older nuns could not withstand the harsh living conditions and died within the first year.

He buried them in a side tunnel. Sister Bich lived until the early 90s and then passed away due to untreated pneumonia. We found her body near where Sister Tuyet lay.” I asked, my voice choking: “Why did my sister survive?” Lieutenant Thanh hesitated, finding it hard to speak. “It seems he was obsessed with her, both despising and infatuated.

There are passages in the diary describing keeping her separately, not allowing contact with anyone. Both tormenting and protecting her in his twisted way. There are a few photos; we won’t let you see them, Father. Better not.” I nodded even though he couldn’t see. My throat choked up not out of fear but out of anger, out of pity.

My sister, a person who lived for faith, had to suffer such a fate just because of a shattered soul full of hatred. “We will prosecute him for multiple crimes: false imprisonment, incest (implies twisted nature/abuse), manslaughter, torture; it could be a life sentence.” I replied softly: “He has nothing left to keep, but my sister still has a whole life that needs healing.” Lieutenant Thanh’s voice softened. “She is a warrior.

We have never seen anyone survive nearly 3 decades underground who still kept their memory, their faith, and their self.” I hung up as the doctor approached, informing me I could go into the ICU to meet Tuyet. For the first time in 28 years, I put on protective gear, wore a mask and gloves, and was led into the room. The room was white, machines beeping steadily; on the bed was a tiny body, withered like a dry leaf.

But when I stepped forward, her eyes opened. I spoke softly: “Tuyet, it’s me, Phuc here.” Her eyes glistened with water, a tear fell down her cheek, and she whispered: “I knew you would find me.” I held her hand, skeletal but warm; that feeling was something sacred.

I asked nothing more, didn’t need to, because that hand squeeze, those eyes, that intact faith said it all. I sat inside the hospital’s small chapel, a place with only enough room for a few rows of wooden chairs and a cross on the wall. No stained glass, no bells, no singing. But the silence here made me feel more clearly than anywhere else.

I knelt down, head bowed low, lips whispering words of thanksgiving, while my hand trembled holding the rosary I had clutched ever since Tuyet was brought up from that cellar. She was still lying in the intensive care unit amidst IV lines, ventilators, and cold dim yellow light. But she lived; my sister lived. I demanded nothing more, did not hope for a clear explanation, did not need to understand all of God’s intentions.

Because there are things in life one can only accept, not explain. I used to pray for a miracle, used to think it would be a glorious reunion, but reality was quieter, more painful, and truer. And perhaps that very truth is the greatest miracle.

That even though buried deep in darkness for nearly three decades, a soul still kept the light inside. I remembered when Doctor Linh, the main physician treating Tuyet, came to talk to me early in the morning. She was a woman of few words but eyes full of compassion. “Sister Tuyet is very weak but is responding well to medication and oxygen. She needs time for her body to get used to light, to the outside environment.

Her immune system is almost gone, and mentally it might be a long journey.” I only asked one question: “Did my sister mention anything?” The doctor nodded slightly: “Yes. The first sentence she said after waking up fully was: ‘Where is my brother? Is Father Phuc coming?’” She looked at me and smiled slightly. “It seems she never stopped believing that you would find her.”

I returned to the waiting room, my heart feeling squeezed tight. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. Happy because my sister was alive, because she still believed. But sad because for all those years, that tiny woman had to embrace her faith alone in the darkness.

While I sat on the pulpit reading prayers, unaware that my sister was lying underground just a few hundred meters away. A while later, a nurse came to tell me I could visit. I wore protective gear as regulated—gown, mask, gloves. When I walked into the room, I saw Tuyet lying tilted slightly to one side, eyes half-closed, hand still holding the old wooden rosary she wouldn’t let anyone take away. I walked over, gently placing my hand on hers.

Her eyes opened slowly but enough to recognize me. And then, even though my face was mostly covered, she still whispered: “Brother.” I nodded, choking back tears. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.” She smiled, just a little, tired but clear. Her voice was hoarse, sounding like wind blowing through paper, but she still tried to utter: “I knew you would search.” I wanted to say so much, but no words came out.

I just held her hand so she could feel the warmth. She closed her eyes for a moment then opened them asking softly: “Does our parish still exist?” I smiled lightly, eyes stinging. “It still exists. Saint Anne’s still stands there, people still go to mass, and they still remember you.” “And the bell?” she asked further. “Still rings three times a day, even though some people complain it’s noisy.” I joked softly.

She smiled again, “Thanks be to God.” Then her voice faded. “I told Sister Bich that there would be a day you came. I kept the faith because I knew God still existed.” I squeezed her hand, looking up at the cold white ceiling of the ICU. “You weren’t wrong, and God held you tight, letting you live to prove that true faith can exist even in the deepest depths of hell.”

At that moment, the nurse signaled that visiting hours were over. I nodded, leaning down close to her ear: “Rest, I won’t leave the hospital. When you wake up, I will be here.” She nodded slightly. I left the room, my heart both painful and serene. On the way back to the waiting room, I received a call from Lieutenant Thanh.

He announced they had completed the excavation of the side tunnel, locating where the two older nuns, Sister Hien and Sister Hong, were buried. They also found personal items hidden carefully in the tunnel wall—things the nuns used to use, prayer books, old habits, a few unsent letters. I listened to every detail and felt my heart sink. Three people had gone forever, one remained, and there was only a miracle for Tuyet.

Before hanging up, Lieutenant Thanh added: “I examined Mr. Si’s diary carefully. Although disgusting, it is a clear warning. Children growing up in the shadow of hatred, if not healed, can create darkness for others. But just like Sister Tuyet, there are people who, even when drowned in darkness, still keep the light inside.”

I was silent and understood that this story was not just about a villain and victims but about choice. Choosing to believe even without a clear reason to believe, choosing to love even though betrayed, and choosing to forgive even though one might never forget. When I returned to the waiting room, Mr. Hai was still sitting there. He looked at me, asking softly: “How is she?” I sat down next to him, hands holding the rosary, eyes looking up at the cold white ceiling of the ICU.

“She is weak, but she still has faith, and that is enough.” After the day my sister was found, time for me no longer passed normally. Some days I felt like just yesterday I was kneeling in the chapel praying for something I dared not name. Yet now I sit here beside the hospital bed, watching my sister sleep in the soft light of the intensive care unit.

Tuyet is still weak, still can’t speak much, but her eyes are clearer every day, possessing the look of someone stepping back from the brink. The nurse told me: “She is more alert than people thought, recovering slowly but surely.” I nodded, smiling slightly, then just knew to sit there holding her hand, reciting a few familiar prayers silently as if time was no longer important.

No one said it, but I knew everyone at this hospital sensed the unusual nature of Tuyet’s case. Not just the story of her surviving nearly 30 years of captivity, but the way she existed. The way she did not blame, did not hate, did not fall into resentment. She just smiled weakly but with warmth every time someone asked about her.

Once, I secretly asked Tuyet: “Did you ever think you wouldn’t get out?” She nodded but then said: “In the early years, yes, but the longer it went on, I realized if I was still breathing, then faith remained. I couldn’t know which day would be the last, but I also didn’t think I was forgotten. I believed someone was looking, and if there was no one, God still saw me.”

I turned away to wipe a hasty tear. Many times I thought I was the one who deserved to be comforted by her. But it turned out I was the one relearning the lesson of faith from a person who had lived in darkness for nearly half a lifetime. A few days later, the police completed the excavation and identification. The remaining three nuns were all identified.

Sister Bich’s body was placed in a white casket, wrapped in an old veil, still retaining its basic shape thanks to the cold and dry conditions in the tunnel. The two older sisters had turned to bones, discovered in a side room, where Mr. Si used to call the “resting place.” Hearing it made my flesh crawl.

But then I thought perhaps in that very darkness they had also found final peace, at least no longer forgotten. The funeral for the three was held a week later; I presided. For the first time in my priestly career, I didn’t have to preach to convince anyone to believe in the resurrection. I just told the story, the story of four women who chose to live for faith, and three of them returned to God in silence but not without meaning.

The congregation came in numbers I didn’t expect; even those who hadn’t been to mass in a long time were present. Some cried, some stood still, some just bowed their heads slightly and walked away silently. But the atmosphere that day, I was sure, was no longer a farewell but a cleansing. As if the obsession that lasted nearly 30 years was finally lifted from everyone’s shoulders.

As for Tuyet, she couldn’t attend, but when I recounted it to her, she just placed her hand on her forehead, closed her eyes, and whispered: “Finally, Sister Bich has light.” I wasn’t sure if the light my sister mentioned was sunlight, the funeral, or something deeper. But I didn’t ask because I knew she understood much better than I did about that. regarding Mr. Si, I didn’t go to the trial.

Not out of anger, but because I saw it as unnecessary. The law would do its job. I didn’t need to witness him being punished to feel relieved. I only knew that the years he lived in the villa full of fragrant wood, full of wine and power, were the same years my sister lived under the cold earth without light.

And now the roles were reversed; my sister was gradually stepping into the light, while he began long days of imprisonment. One afternoon, I walked into the hospital room and saw Tuyet sitting up, back leaning on the pillow, holding a thin book. I approached in surprise; it was an old printed Bible, the cover wrinkled, unclear where it came from.

She looked at me and smiled: “Borrowed from the nurse; I’m reading again gradually to get used to the words.” I sat down and watched her for a long time, then asked: “Tuyet, did you ever think you wouldn’t escape?” She shook her head: “No, I was only afraid if I forgot how to pray.” I squeezed her hand, “Then I would remind you.”

And I truly believed, we would have many years ahead not to forget the darkness but to live with the light. Slow, but sure enough so that the days following would no longer be haunted by what was lost but supported by what remained: family, life, and a faith never extinguished.

There are pains in life that cannot be named, and there are people who silently endure in the darkness without anyone knowing. Sister Tuyet’s story is not just a missing persons case; it is proof of the strength of belief, of family love, and of inner light that never goes out. Throughout 28 years imprisoned underground, where sunlight did not reach, Sister Tuyet kept her faith intact, without resentment, without despair, only silently praying and believing that one day her brother would find her, and that miracle happened.

Real life is like that too; sometimes we are drowned by sorrow, loss, and the feeling of being forgotten. But if inside the heart one still holds a ray of light, no matter how small, that is what holds us back, helps us step forward, and sometimes saves a whole life. Any darkness will pass if we still believe in the light.

And sometimes patience, an outstretched hand, or simply compassion can create extraordinary things. If you feel this story touched your heart, please leave a comment, share your thoughts, or tell us what content you want to see next. Don’t forget to press like and subscribe to the channel so you don’t miss future videos. Wishing you a peaceful day, and even if there are storms out there, may your heart remain warm enough to keep the light within.