In the morning at Làng cổ Phước Tích, elders often sit beneath the wooden beams of ancestral houses and recall the years when pottery kilns burned through the night. Clay was taken from the riverbank, kneaded by hand, fired, then loaded onto boats that traveled downstream. The village once depended on those journeys — some boats returned heavy with rice and salt, others came back nearly empty after slow trade. Its history is shaped as much by uncertainty as by craft, by departures and returns carried along the water. By late afternoon on Đầm Tam Giang, that same sense of waiting resurfaces in a different form. The lagoon stretches so wide that the horizon dissolves into pale light, and small boats drift quietly across its surface. Fishermen speak of nights when nets came up light, and of seasons when fish filled the hull to the brim. If potters once waited for fire and clay to respond, families here wait for the water. Two landscapes, two livelihoods — yet both shaped by patience, by risk, and by a long decision to remain. A day between village and lagoon does not overwhelm with spectacle; it reveals how endurance, more than prosperity, has defined life in this part of Hue for generations.