In 1980, four nuns living in a small community in Northern California suddenly disappeared without a message, without a trace. They had just arrived at a secluded chapel in the woods for a retreat, and then never returned. For the next 28 years, everyone was left with only vague theories and silent grief.

But then, on the exact day of the 28th anniversary memorial, 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 horrific 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 Grace Church in Elden Hollow, forming shimmering bands of color on the rows of wooden pews worn smooth by time. I stood on the pulpit, hand raised making the sign of the cross, lips whispering the final prayer of the service. “May the souls of the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

The whole church responded in unison: “Amen.” Even though 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 the day my younger sister, Sister Tuyet, along with three other nuns, vanished without a trace. That event became an unhealed wound in my heart, in the parish community here, and across this land of Northern California.

Every year I still hold a memorial service for them, but lately, I no longer expect a miracle. Perhaps I am just holding on to a little something left behind. A ritual, a memory, an image that does not dissolve in remembrance. When the mass ended, I stood at the main door, shaking hands with each parishioner leaving the church. They have aged over the years, 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 half-believed, half-doubted story, a ghost in the village.

Mrs. Cong Hoa, surely over 80 now, grasped my hand tightly with her wrinkled hands. “I still remember Sister Hien teaching the little ones catechism, as gentle as a kind mother.” I could only nod and smile sadly. Sister Hien disappeared at the age of 68, having dedicated her whole life to God, finally vanishing into silence. No one knew what had happened.

When the church was left with only me and the sound of wind blowing through the windows, I walked slowly back to the office in the rear. The room was small, simple, with an old desk, bookshelves, and a window overlooking the church cemetery. Here I could allow myself to be weak, no need to hide the pain. I slumped into the chair, burying my face in my two hands. The dignified appearance of the priest disappeared, leaving only a brother who still hadn’t found his sister after nearly three decades.

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

Every year on this exact day, I sit here crying like a child. My tears fall not because of lost faith, but because of too much faith. Believing to the point of not being able to 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 one was a photo of Tuyet on the day of her perpetual vows. Her face was radiant, eyes bright as if wanting to embrace the whole world. I remembered clearly that day I stood next to her in the ceremony, hand on her shoulder, heart full of pride and perhaps a tiny bit of anxiety. I was the one who awakened 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 so, would she still be alive? Could she be a teacher, a wife, a mother?

I made the sign of the cross immediately to push away 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 sat on a wooden bench in front of the Saint Dinas chapel, the forest behind seeming to want to swallow everything. Sister Hien and Sister Hong had their hands gently clasped, faces kind, while Sister Bich smiled, sitting slightly tilted. And Tuyet, my sister, eyes still blazing bright like the day she took her final vows.

This photo was taken by a tourist a few days before they went missing. They went to that chapel on a short retreat. Two days of prayer, fasting, and meditation before the feast of some female saint whose name I don’t remember. Additionally, they were assigned the task of assessing the chapel to see if it should be renovated or closed permanently. Tuyet, because of her meticulousness, was chosen to record the condition of the structure.

I remember the days after they disappeared. Police, tracking dogs, volunteers, all participated in the search in the Trinity Forest. They scoured every tree stump, forest stream, the whole mountain area but found not a trace, no clothes, no personal belongings, no bloodstains, as if they had dissolved into the air. Authorities thought they might have encountered wild animals; black bears in this forest were not rare, but even animal remains, a scene, some sign were not there.

Everyone knew and everyone believed. No one fully believed in that hypothesis. Villagers began to gossip, suggesting they might have run away, abandoning their vows. I tried my best to extinguish those cruel words, but I knew people’s trust was limited. I looked at Tuyet’s photo again. “You would never do that. Never leave without telling me. Never.”

I began to look closer at the scenery behind the photo. The small Saint Dinas chapel with a white wooden roof, simple bell tower, nestled deep 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 there was something in me urging, 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, like a whisper that I needed to return to that place, that there was something yet to be clarified.

I left everything behind, put the photo in my shirt pocket, took the Bible and rosary, then locked the room door. As I drove out of the church parking lot, my heart was strangely quiet, no more fear, no more blind hope, only one thing: I needed to return to the last place my sister stood. And if God had something He wanted me to see, then may He show the way.

I drove out of Elden Hollow while the sun was still mild. The road leading up to the Shasta-Trinity Forest wound like a long ribbon covered in tree shade. On both sides were meadows, then farms, then gradually dense forest began to take over the view. I had traveled this road countless times. When young, when just becoming a priest, and especially throughout the months searching for Tuyet after she disappeared.

In the past, the passenger seat next to me was piled with flyers printed with my sister’s face, maps, voice recorders, all sorts of fragile hope. Now it was empty, only the photo of the four nuns tucked in my chest pocket like a strange kind of compass. About an hour and a half later, I reached the bordering forest. I slowed down when nearing the turn leading to Saint Dinas, at least according to my memory.

But instead of the old dirt road of yesteryear, in front of me was a large sturdy iron gate, with a “No Entry – Private Property” sign attached. Behind was a paved driveway, planted with ornamental flowers, hedges trimmed evenly like a ruler. I bewilderedly looked back at the old photo. The distant mountain range was still the same, the pine trees on the horizon were still in the correct position. This was definitely the place. But the chapel had vanished.

I stepped out of the car, looking through the fence; not a single sign of the chapel that once stood here. No foundation, no cross, no memorial stele. Only a sprawling lawn, planted with expensive ornamental trees, not fitting at all with the forest scenery. A feeling of unease began in me, as if someone had intentionally erased everything.

I pulled out my phone to find Mr. Hai’s number, the man who used to look after the Saint Dinas chapel. I hadn’t spoken to him for many years, but hoped he was still in the area. Luckily, after a few rings, someone picked up.

“Hello.”

“Yes. Hello Mr. Hai. This is Father Phuc from Grace Parish in Elden Hollow.”

He was silent for a few seconds then recognized my voice. “Ah, Father Phuc? It’s been too 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 right, that chapel was dismantled long ago. After the nuns went missing, people attending mass became very few. Then the bell tower cracked, nearly crushing a volunteer. The Bishop saw it wasn’t safe so he had it closed, then sold to a man named Si Dan. He demolished the chapel entirely.”

I listened and went cold all over. “I didn’t know anything about the land sale or dismantling.”

“Father isn’t the only one. It was sold in a hurry at a cheap price, and that man paid cash as fast as lightning.”

“Si Dan.” I repeated the name, sounding so unpleasant. “Is he still here?”

“Still. He lives on that property. The main house is deep inside. But honestly, this man is very strange, Father. Rarely leaves the house, doesn’t associate with anyone. They say he’s unapproachable, dislikes religion.”

I sighed, “Mr. Hai, thank you, I will visit you later. I just… I need to come here to revisit some memories.”

Before I hung up, he added, “Father, if you need to see any old items from the chapel again, the cross, missals, prayer kneelers, I still kept a few things. Come and I’ll give them to you.”

I was touched. “Yes, I will visit, but let me try to meet Mr. Si first.”

I turned the car around to find a way to approach the property from another side as Mr. Hai instructed. This road circled behind the property, deserted, narrow, and full of tree shade. Through gaps in the dense forest, I saw a large three-story wood and stone villa-style house. Wide balcony, luxurious architecture but standing solitary in the middle of the forest. The feeling was both strange and had something spine-chilling about it.

I stopped the car in the adjacent area where there was a trail leading in. In front of the door, I saw a tall man with white hair, wearing sportswear, holding a leash leading a huge dog. When he saw me walking up, he stared, then when he saw my priest collar, his face changed color, not surprise but distinct annoyance.

“Who are you?” He asked bluntly without greeting.

I smiled slightly, “Hello, I am Father Phuc, a priest from the nearby Grace Parish. I came to revisit the place that used to be the Saint Dinas chapel.”

“That chapel was destroyed long ago, nothing left to visit.” He said in a curt 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’m not involved in that. I only bought the land legally.”

“I don’t blame you at all. I just… I was just curious why there are no traces left, no memorial plaque, nothing at all.”

“I don’t like the sound of bells. I lost sleep constantly because of it. Now it’s quieter, that’s all.”

I tried to stay calm. “Church bells are a beautiful tradition. It’s not just sound but a reminder to our souls that…”

“Please,” he cut in, “I don’t need preaching. I don’t like being disturbed. Leave before I call the police.”

I nodded. “I understand. Sorry for bothering you. May peace be with you.”

He slammed the door shut. I turned back to walk to the car, heart heavy. There was something about Mr. Si that wasn’t simply hating priests but 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 used to stand. Suddenly the radio in the car turned on, even though I was sure 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, heart pounding; the chanting music disappeared after a few seconds, the radio was silent again. I tried turning it on and off, but nothing happened. Then I felt a familiar sensation that used to come to me when praying, a chill down my spine, but not 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 sure I needed to go back there. Something was calling me and I couldn’t ignore it.

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

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

But the forest wasn’t level; there were spots where the earth bulged, tree roots stretched out, and there was a section of the old fence warped by the terrain. I slipped because I tripped on a tree root, hands grabbing the iron fence bar to keep balance, inadvertently leaning my whole body on a weak spot. A crack was heard, a section of the iron bar broke loose from the cement foundation, creating a gap large enough for a person to squeeze through.

I bewilderedly looked at the gap, heart full of conflict. I didn’t mean to break in, really didn’t, but no one saw, the surroundings were so silent one could hear the wind whistling through tree branches. I let out a long breath then whispered, “Please forgive me.” Then I squeezed through the gap into the land that used to be the old Saint Dinas chapel.

Under my feet was a layer of grass trimmed evenly, but there was still that feeling of something unnatural. The bushes, the flower clumps were too perfect as if wanting to hide something rather than for beauty. I stepped lightly, instinctively eyes scanning around to find a familiar point, but everything was strange. Just then I saw between low ornamental bushes something made of metal lying flat on the ground.

I approached, parted the grass; it was a ventilation-style iron grate, old and rusty, classic twisted patterns, not fitting at all with the modern style around. I knelt down, lowered my ear to listen. At first nothing, I almost gave up when a vague sound rang out, it was singing, unclear words but the rhythm was like Gregorian.

Then like someone coughing lightly. I shuddered. Impossible. I pressed closer. This time it was a human voice, faint as if echoing from somewhere very far away. I jumped up, pulled out my phone to call 911. My voice was hoarse but clear, “I am a Priest. I am near the old Saint Dinas chapel area. Now it’s Mr. Si Dan’s land. I hear human voices from a ventilation slot underground, maybe someone is trapped down below.”

On the other end was a moment of silence then the dispatcher’s voice asked back, “Are you sure it’s a real human voice?”

“Yes, I can’t explain, but there is a person down there, I heard them sing then cough.”

The dispatcher was still skeptical but her voice softened. “Yes, Father, please wait near the car, we will send police.”

I hung up, went back to the fence gap to crawl out. As soon as I got back to the car, I called Mr. Hai. I told him everything from the ventilation hole to the singing and coughing. He was stunned.

“What did Father say? A ventilation hole? That chapel in the old days didn’t have a basement, only built on a cement foundation, definitely no space underneath.”

I gripped the phone tight. “If so then it must be someone built later after Mr. Si bought it.”

Mr. Hai said immediately, “I’m coming right away, I’m near here, 10 minutes.”

I stood by the car, hand fingering the rosary, mouth whispering prayers. My head was spinning. What if there really was someone down there? Who? Why there? Then the craziest thing… was it Tuyet after 28 years? No? Impossible, but what if… The sound of police sirens rang out, a blue and white patrol car arrived.

Two policemen stepped out, an older one with white hair, the other younger, face sharp. I recounted everything, carefully, calmly. I didn’t hide the fact that I had accidentally entered someone’s land, only said I couldn’t sit still when hearing a human voice from underground. The police didn’t blame me. They said if it was a life-saving situation, it was the highest priority.

I led them along with Mr. Hai to the ventilation grate; we held our breath listening together. And then that singing voice again, still Gregorian but weaker, broken like the singer was about to be exhausted. Then coughing again, a dry deep cough. The older policeman turned to me, his eyes solemn. “We will handle this. Father and Mr. Hai wait at the car. This is now an official investigation.”

I nodded, my heart beating like a drum roll, everything seemed to be crossing a threshold of no return. There was a person down there, someone was still alive. And to me, intuition said that it wasn’t accidental, 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 chapel land, hand gripping the rosary, eyes following the police with binoculars, and heart not calm for a single minute. Outside the forest was still quiet, the afternoon began to wane, sunlight filtering through the canopy was only dappled spots, but inside me, the air thickened as if there was something heavy, both suspenseful and fearful.

Mr. Hai sitting next to me was also silent, occasionally turning to look at me then looking back toward Mr. Si Dan’s house gate. I knew he was trying to stay calm for me, but his eyes were also flooded with worry. Decades as the chapel caretaker, he understood this place better than anyone. But now the thing gradually revealing itself in that darkness did not belong to memory but was a secret buried 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, had returned. This time with an emergency search warrant. They didn’t wait long, just explained briefly to Mr. Si then proceeded according to the law. I heard through the walkie-talkie Mr. Si screaming from his yard.

“You are trespassing on private property, I’ll sue all of you!”

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

Then they left there, walking along the small trail leading deep into the forest, where the Saint Dinas chapel used to stand. I strained my eyes following every step through the screen. They reached a small wooden warehouse, old corrugated iron roof, looking normal like any other warehouse. But then during the inspection, a policeman dropped a wrench on the floor.

A clack rang out but didn’t sound like solid wood, instead sounding hollow, echoing like a hollow floor underneath. I sat up straight. Lieutenant Minh knelt down to tap. “The floor in this area was newly re-laid, sounds hollow.”

They started removing the floorboards and then a stone staircase appeared going deep underground. No one said anything for a few seconds, even I through the screen choked for breath. Beneath that tiny warehouse was a secret passage.

“I know nothing about that.” Mr. Si’s voice echoed through the microphone. “Must be from before I bought it.”

No one believed him. They took flashlights and went down. The staircase was cramped, made of stone with wear marks in the middle, proving people had walked up and down not a few times. At the end of the staircase was a heavy wooden door, rusty hinges. Next to it was a stone niche, with an old iron key placed ready. They unlocked it, the door groaned a hoarse sound then slowly opened.

The thing inside was a long tunnel, stone walls, wooden support beams, cold air breathing out. They walked in, the tunnel extending more than a hundred meters, leading to a small space, an underground chamber. The light from flashlights shone on a crude room, stone walls, dirt floor, a thin mattress, an old wooden table with a few items: cup, spoon, candle burned almost out, a few pieces of dry bread… and then they saw a woman lying curled up on the mattress.

Thin to the point of just skin and bones, white hair cut short, hands clutching a rosary made of cloth string and wood. Eyes half open. Her face was gaunt but still had familiar features. Lieutenant Thanh bent down gently asking: “What is your name, miss?”

A moment later, those dry cracked lips moved.

“Tuyet… Sister Tuyet…”

My phone dropped, hands covering my face, mouth unable to utter a sound. Mr. Hai was stunned then he whispered, “Oh God… it’s her.”

I jumped up, ran toward the fence. An officer on duty stopped me.

“I beg you… 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 communicated on the walkie-talkie. A few minutes later, he nodded. “Father can stand near the ambulance area but cannot enter the tunnel. They will bring her up right away.”

I stood there heart feeling like it would explode. A few minutes later, from the warehouse, they carried out a stretcher, on it was a small, skeletal body, almost lifeless. But when she passed me, her eyes opened slightly and I saw in those eyes it was Tuyet. Though exhausted, those eyes were still bright. She looked at me, lips moving. I understood immediately even though I didn’t hear clearly.

She said, “God did not abandon me.”

I collapsed, crying like I had never cried before. Behind, people brought out another stretcher. This time it was a dried body, only bones wrapped in an old blanket. Police said that was Sister Bich. The truth gradually became clear.

Mr. Si was handcuffed on the spot, his face pale white, no longer the arrogant look of the morning. As he passed me, he suddenly turned and spat in my face then hissed: “Well, satisfied yet?”

I said nothing, only wiped my face and whispered, “I am happy. Because I get to suffer humiliation like the One I serve.” He was dragged away forever.

The ambulance left the old land. Mr. Hai and I followed closely, my heart empty, painful. But there was a small light, the light of hope, of faith never extinguished for nearly three decades. Sister Tuyet was alive, my sister had returned.

I sat in the hospital waiting room, hands clutching the rosary, eyes looking into the empty space in front but actually my mind was stuck somewhere between the past and present. On one side was the image of Tuyet, my sister lying on the stretcher, skin and bones, eyes still holding a last bit of spirit when seeing me. On the other side was the shadow of Mr. Si Dan being dragged away in handcuffs, face full of resentment, as if he were the victim.

For so many years, I used to think maybe my sister died in the forest or worse, was swept away in an accident no one knew about. But I never, never imagined such a cruel truth. That my sister was imprisoned right underground, 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, heart beating fast.

“Father Phuc, I’m calling to report the initial investigation results to you. We searched Mr. Si’s entire house, found a diary quite long and hard to read in both content and spirit.”

I gripped the phone. “I’m listening.”

“He wrote a lot. Since the late 70s… started with hating the church. The reason is tragic. His mother abandoned him since childhood then later became a nun in another state. He never saw her again. Grew up with his grandmother, an extremist Catholic. According to what he wrote, his grandmother beat and taught him with the rod, forced him to learn catechism as if it were punishment. From there he bred hatred.”

I closed my eyes listening to every word. A part of me felt pity, but pity cannot erase the crime.

“He especially hated nuns, believing they betrayed motherhood, abandoned the vocation of being a mother to chase the invisible. When he knew your parish nun group went up for a retreat at Saint Dinas right on an occasion no one went along, he saw it as an opportunity, step by step planning.”

I swallowed hard. “How did he do it?”

“He posed as a friendly local, brought cakes and tea to greet them. The tea had a mild sedative. The two older nuns, Sister Hien and Sister Hong drank first, got tired and lay down to rest. The two young nuns, Sister Bich and your sister, were busy caring for the other two when he returned a second time. This time more fully prepared. He subdued them one by one. Sister Tuyet resisted the hardest, nearly escaped out the door, but he knocked her out then injected sedative.”

I sat there, hands limp, feeling overwhelmed by helplessness. My sister in that moment almost escaped but finally was still dragged back to the darkness.

“He took each person down to the basement through the side door, the way he had dug himself months before. After locking them up, he returned to the chapel, burned everything: bed sheets, clothes, books, washed the floor with chemicals, destroyed every trace. By the next morning, when the first parishioner came up looking for the nuns, the chapel was clean as new, not a trace.”

I whispered, “And no one suspected.”

“In those days investigation was still primitive, they searched the whole forest, rummaged through paths but no one thought of the underground tunnel, nor did anyone think a wealthy man like Mr. Si was involved. He bought the land about two years later through an intermediary company using cash, dismantled the chapel, renovated slowly. From the outside looking in, everything looked like a hermit loving nature, nothing suspicious.”

I clenched the rosary. “What about the other three?”

“The diary clearly states the two older nuns couldn’t withstand the harsh living conditions, died within the first year. He buried them in the auxiliary tunnel. Sister Bich lived until the early 90s then passed away due to untreated pneumonia. We found her body near where Sister Tuyet lay.”

I asked, 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 fascinated. There are diary passages describing confining her separately, not allowing contact with anyone. Both tormenting and protecting in his twisted way. There are a few photos, we won’t let Father see. Shouldn’t.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see. My throat choked not from fear but from anger, from pity. My sister, a person living for faith had to suffer such a fate just because of a shattered and hate-filled soul.

“We will prosecute him with multiple charges: illegal imprisonment, manslaughter, torture… possibly a life sentence.”

I replied softly, “He has nothing left to keep, but my sister still has a whole life needing healing.”

Lieutenant Thanh’s voice softened. “She is a warrior. We have never seen anyone survive nearly 3 decades underground and still keep their memory, faith, and themselves.”

I hung up when the doctor walked over, informing me I could enter the ICU to see Tuyet. For the first time in 28 years, I changed into protective gear, wore a mask, gloves then was led into the room. White room, machines beeping steadily, on the bed a body small and withered.

But when I walked up, her eyes opened. I said softly, “Tuyet, it’s me, Phuc.”

Her eyes glistened with water, a drop fell down her cheek then she whispered. “I knew you would find me.”

I held her hand, bony but warm, that feeling was like a sacred thing. I didn’t ask anything more, didn’t need to, because that hand squeeze, because those eyes, because that faith still intact had said it all.

I sat inside the hospital’s small chapel, where there was only enough room for a few rows of wooden benches and a cross mounted 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, mouth whispering words of thanksgiving, while my hands tremblingly held the rosary that I had clutched since Tuyet was brought up from that tunnel.

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, expected no clear explanation, didn’t need to understand all of God’s intentions. Because there are things in life one can only accept, not explain. I used to beg for a miracle, used to think it would be a glorious reunion, but reality was quieter, more painful, and more real. And perhaps that very reality was the biggest miracle. That despite being buried deep in darkness for nearly three decades, a soul still kept the light inside.

I recalled when Doctor Linh, the main treating physician for Tuyet, came to talk to me early in the morning. She was a person of few words but eyes full of compassion. “Sister Tuyet is very weak but responding well to medication and oxygen.” She said she needed time for her body to get used to light, to the outside environment. Her immune system was almost gone and mentally it could be a long journey.

I asked only one question, “Did my sister mention anything?”

The doctor nodded slightly, “Yes. The first sentence she said after fully waking up was ‘Where is my brother? Did Father Phuc come?’” She looked at me then smiled slightly. “Seems she never stopped believing you would find her.”

I returned to the waiting room feeling like someone was squeezing my heart. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad anymore. Happy because my sister was alive because she still believed. But sad because for all those years, that little woman had to embrace faith alone in the darkness. While I sat on the pulpit reading prayers without knowing my sister was lying underground a few hundred meters away.

A while later, a nurse came to inform me I could visit. I wore protective gear as regulated: gown, mask, gloves. When entering the room, I saw Tuyet lying slightly tilted to one side, eyes half closed, hand still holding the old wooden rosary she wouldn’t let anyone take away. I walked up, gently placed 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, weary but clear. Her voice was hoarse, sounding like wind blowing through paper but still trying to utter, “I knew you would find.”

I wanted to say a lot, but no words came out. I just held her hand so she could feel the warmth. She closed her eyes for a bit then opened them asking softly, “Is our parish still there?”

I smiled lightly, eyes stinging. “Still there. Grace is still standing there, people still go to mass and they still remember you.”

“And the bell?” she asked further.

“Still ringing three times a day, even if 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 faith because I knew God was still there.”

I squeezed her hand, eyes looking up at the cold white ceiling of the ICU. “You weren’t wrong. And God held you tight, let you live to prove that faith truly can exist even in the depths of hell.”

At that moment the nurse signaled visiting time was over. I nodded, leaned down close to her ear, “You rest, I won’t leave the hospital. Whenever you wake up, I will be present.”

She nodded slightly. I left the room, heart both painful and serene. On the way back to the waiting room, I received a call from Lieutenant Thanh. He informed that they had completed the excavation of the auxiliary tunnel, identified the burial location of the two older nuns, Sister Hien and Sister Hong. They also found personal items hidden carefully in the tunnel wall: things the doctor used to use, prayer books, old habits, a few letters not yet sent.

I listened to every detail and felt my heart sink. Three people had gone forever, one remained, and there was only one miracle for Tuyet. Before hanging up, Lieutenant Thanh added, “I have carefully reviewed Mr. Si’s diary. Although disgusting, it is a clear warning. Children growing up in the shadow of hatred, if not healed, can create shadows for others. But also like Sister Tuyet, there are people who even when submerged 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 if maybe never forgetting.

When I returned to the waiting room, Mr. Hai was still sitting there. He looked at me, asked softly, “How is she?”

I sat down next to him, hand gripping the rosary, eyes looking up at the cold white ceiling of the ICU. “She is weak but she still has faith, that is enough.”

After the day my sister was found, time for me didn’t pass normally anymore. Some days I felt like just yesterday I was kneeling in the chapel begging for something I dared not name. Yet now I sit here next to the hospital bed, watching my sister sleep in the soft light of the intensive care room.

Tuyet was still weak, still couldn’t speak much but her eyes were clearer every day, having 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 could only sit there holding her hand reciting silently a few familiar prayers as if time was no longer important.

No one said it out loud but I knew everyone in this hospital felt the unusualness around Tuyet’s case. Not just the story of her surviving nearly 30 years of captivity but the way she existed. The way she didn’t resent, didn’t hate, didn’t fall into bitterness. She only smiled weakly but full of warmth every time someone asked.

Once I secretly asked Tuyet, “Did you ever think you wouldn’t escape?”

She nodded but then said, “Many first years yes, but the later it got I realized if I was still breathing then faith was still there. I couldn’t know which day was the last but I also didn’t think I was forgotten. I believed someone was searching and if no one was, then God still saw me.”

I turned away wiping tears hastily. Many times I thought I was the one deserving her comfort. But it turned out I was the one relearning the lesson of faith from someone 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 coffin, wrapped in an old habit, still keeping the basic shape thanks to the cold and dry conditions under the tunnel. The two older nuns had turned into bones, discovered in a side room, where Mr. Si used to call the “resting place.” Hearing it gave me goosebumps.

But then I thought maybe in that very darkness they also found final peace, at least not being forgotten anymore. 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 resurrection. I just told the story, the story of four women who chose to live for faith and three of them returned to God silently but not meaninglessly.

The congregation came so crowded I didn’t expect, even those who hadn’t attended mass for a long time were present. Some cried, some stood silent, some just bowed their heads slightly then quietly left. But the atmosphere that day I am sure was no longer a farewell but a cleansing. As if the obsession lasting nearly 30 years was finally lifted from everyone’s shoulders.

As for Tuyet, she couldn’t attend. When I recounted it to her, she just put her hand on her forehead, closed her eyes then whispered. “Finally Sister Bich also has light.” I wasn’t clear if the light my sister mentioned was sunlight, the funeral, or something deeper. But I didn’t ask because I knew she understood it much better than me.

As for Mr. Si, I didn’t go to the trial. Not because of anger but because I found it unnecessary. The law would do its part. I didn’t need to witness him being punished to feel relieved. I only knew the years he lived in the villa full of fragrant wood, full of wine and power were the very years my sister lived underground cold without light. And now the roles were reversed, my sister was gradually stepping out into the light, and he began long days of imprisonment.

One afternoon, I walked into the hospital room and saw Tuyet sitting, back leaning against a pillow, hand holding a thin booklet. I was surprised and approached. It was an old printed bible booklet, wrinkled cover, unclear where it came from. She looked at me smiling, “Borrowed from the nurse, I’m reading again gradually to get used to the words.”

I sat down watching her for a long time then asked, “Tuyet, did you ever think you wouldn’t escape?”

She shook her head, “No, I was just afraid if I forgot how to pray.”

I squeezed her hand then smiled. “And I truly believe, we will have many years ahead not to forget the darkness but to live with the light. Slow but sure enough so that the days after are no longer haunted by what was lost but supported by what remains: kinship, life, and a faith never extinguished.”

There are pains in life that cannot be named and there are people silently enduring in darkness without anyone knowing. Sister Tuyet’s story is not just a disappearance case, it is proof of the power of faith, of kinship, and of inner light that never goes out. Throughout 28 years of imprisonment underground, where sunlight did not touch, Sister Tuyet still kept her faith intact, no resentment, no 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, feeling forgotten. But if in the heart one still keeps a ray of light, no matter how small, that is what holds us back, helps us move on 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 make extraordinary things happen.

If you feel this story touches your heart, please leave a comment, share your thoughts or content you want to watch next. Don’t forget to like and subscribe to the channel so you don’t miss future videos. Wishing you a peaceful day, even if there are storms out there, hope your heart is still warm enough to hold onto the light.