Chapter 22 — Climbing Through the Storm

One year after storm number 11, another, much smaller storm, number 6, swept through Hải Lộng sea on a late autumn night. The wind only gusted to level nine or level ten, not strong enough to cause serious damage like its predecessor the year before, but enough to knock down two old low-voltage columns in a small riverside hamlet.

The field team arrived as soon as the wind stopped, and this time, the person in charge of all the restoration work was not Thắng, but Khánh Thi, who now officially held the role of deputy team leader, directly in charge of field cases while Thắng took on the overall coordination position from the command center, a new assignment applied according to the reform process implemented throughout the Central region over the past year.

"The first column has been erected, the rope is being pulled." Khánh Thi reported via walkie-talkie, her voice was clear, without any hesitation, completely different from the girl who stood trembling on the eighth step two years ago.

"Receive," Thắng replied from the command center, sitting in front of a large screen displaying the entire status of the district's power grid, a position he never thought he would sit in when he was young, but now, at the age of forty-six, with his right arm still sometimes aching when the weather gets cold, he accepts it not as a setback, but as a new chapter in the same journey.

Next to him, a new student, a twenty-two-year-old young man nicknamed Tùng, was watching the screen with attentive, learning eyes, whom Khánh Thi had started training directly three months ago, applying the same method she had told Thắng: talking frankly about fear from the first day.

"The second column is being erected." Vọng's voice rang out over the radio. He was now the leader of another, completely independent team, a testament to the fact that the old team had grown stronger and spread out in many different directions.

The work went smoothly, without any significant incidents, a normal work shift like the hundreds of others the team has handled in the past year since storm No. 11, but for Thắng, sitting in front of the screen, watching his team's every step forward through continuous reports, there was a special feeling that was difficult to name, a deep peace of mind knowing the job was still being done correctly, even though he was no longer the one directly holding the insulating pole.

In the middle of the work shift, while the team was waiting for the concrete at the base of the column to harden, Thắng's phone vibrated, a video call from a familiar number. He picked up the phone, and the screen displayed an image of Cả Xuyên sitting on a rocking chair in his yard, behind him were several pots of newly planted ornamental plants, completely different from the familiar dusty material yard scene.

"I heard there's a small storm coming by," Cả Xuyên said, his voice was much more relaxed compared to his working days. "You're sitting in the command room pointing five fingers. It's really fun."

"You miss your job very much, don't you?" Thắng teased back, knowing full well that his friend still followed all the team's developments even though he had been retired for nearly half a year.

"I remember, but I don't remember this knee at all." Cả Xuyên laughed loudly, rubbing his left knee, which had an artificial joint replacement a few months ago, a surgery he had postponed for many years because of work commitments. "Now I feel stronger when I walk in the morning than when I was climbing poles."

"Khánh Thi is commanding the scene, everything is going smoothly." Thắng broke the news, knowing that was what his friend wanted to hear the most.

"I know, she texted me to show off since afternoon," Cả Xuyên replied, his eyes shining with undisguised pride. "The notebook I gave him is probably almost half full now."

The call ended after a few short greetings, leaving Thắng with a familiar warm feeling, the feeling of knowing that even though people leave a position, what they leave behind continues to live on in the work of those who stay.

By nearly midnight, both poles were completed, power was restored to the small riverside hamlet, and Khánh Thi reported the completion of the work via walkie-talkie before the team packed up their tools and left.

The next morning, when the small storm had completely passed and the sky was clear again as if nothing had ever happened, Thắng drove alone to the coastal sandy beach, where the old pillar 42 had been broken in half, now where the new concrete pillar had been standing for more than a year, around the base of the pillar weeds had grown green, erasing almost all traces of the previous year's devastation.

He stood there for a long time, alone, looking up at the top of the pole where the electric wires ran straight toward the transformer station, carrying a steady stream of electricity to every house, every street, and even Hải Lộng Medical Center. After the center had upgraded its backup generator in accordance with the reform recommendations, there was no longer any need to worry about fragile fuel limits like those on last year's stormy night.

He took out his notebook, which had long since replaced the old one, and flipped to the last blank page, where he still had the habit of jotting down a few short lines every time he visited pillar 42, a private ritual he had set for himself since the day the new pillar was erected.

"One year. The column is still standing. No signs of further erosion." He writes, his handwriting is still a bit stiff on his right wrist every time it gets cold, a small residual effect from the accident last year. "The macadam reinforcement layer worked as calculated."

He closed the book, looked out to sea, where the waves today were much gentler than the day the storm landed, the morning sunlight reflected sparklingly on the water, and in the distance, a few fishing boats were returning after a night out at sea, an image of absolute peace, in complete contrast to the scene of desolation he had witnessed in this very place.

There was the sound of a motorbike approaching. He turned around and saw Khánh Thi just getting off the bike, still wearing the protective gear from last night's shift. Her face was tired but her eyes were still bright.

"I guess you're here," she said, walking closer and standing next to him at the foot of the pillar. "You often come out here in the days after the storm, I've noticed that several times."

"It's just a habit," Thắng replied, not hiding it. "Every time I stand here, I remember clearly why I do this job."

Khánh Thi looked up at the top of the column, then looked out to sea, taking a deep breath of the salty air of the morning after the storm.

"Me too," she said. "Maybe in the future, when Tùng or other students ask me why I chose this profession, I will bring him out here and tell the story, like a small tradition of our own team." Thắng smiled, nodded, and the two stood there for a moment longer, saying nothing more, just quietly looking up at the sturdy pillar standing guard over the electricity flowing through it, a silent symbol of all they had gone through together and repaired together.

His phone vibrated, a text message from Khánh Thi, accompanied by a photo of the latest shift roster, where the name of Tùng, a new student, appeared for the first time as an independent assignment on a small task, and the short words: "The cycle continues again, uncle."

Thắng read the message, a smile slowly appeared on his lips, and he typed back a short response: "Very good. Remember, fear does not go away. It just cannot be controlled."

Putting away his phone, he stood a moment longer at the foot of the pillar, feeling the gentle late autumn wind blowing past, carrying the familiar salty scent of the sea, and looked up one last time, not with the worried eyes of someone who had seen it break, but with the calm eyes of someone who knew that, no matter how strong the next storm was, there were people ready to climb up and face it, not because they were no longer afraid, but because they had learned not to let fear hold them back. underground.

That afternoon, at the Hải Lộng transformer station, a young engineer recorded a simple line in the operation logbook, nothing special compared to thousands of other lines recorded over the past year: "12:15, the entire line is stable, no incidents." The pen was put down, the page closed, and somewhere across Hải Lộng district, thousands of light bulbs were still burning steadily, none of the people turning on the living room light switch that evening thought about how many pillars, how many hands, how many sleepless nights the electricity running through their house had passed through to keep it from ever turning off.

But behind the short words in that diary, is a long journey of people who have learned to stand firm in the midst of storms, not by never falling, but by always having someone ready to reach out when needed, and always having a new, stronger pillar erected in the exact place where the old pillar once fell.