Chapter 12 — Late Night Radio

At ten forty-five, Vy was still sitting in studio B, without turning on the main light, just letting the small table lamp shine on the table top where the notepad with tonight's introduction was lying still, almost blank - she picked up the pen to write a few familiar opening lines but then put it down, unable to find any words light enough to carry the whole day. She looked at her father's microphone, the shiny black hanging cord that swayed slightly every time someone passed by in the hallway, making the soundproof door vibrate slightly, and wondered, if it were him, how would he open the program tonight, after a day of just receiving news that the very program she built was being put on the table.

Hai Duong tapped lightly on the glass frame, didn't say anything, just held up a cup of hot ginger tea, a quiet gesture reminding her that there were fifteen minutes left. Vy nodded, stood up, walked out of the studio to receive the cup of tea, and in that brief moment, their eyes met through the slightly open door.

"Are you okay?" Hai Duong asked in a low voice, not an everyday social question.

"I don't know," Vy answered honestly, accepting the cup of tea, the warmth spreading through her palm, which was unusually cold even though it wasn't windy at all. "But I think, whether it's okay or not, I still have to be on air at eleven o'clock. That's the only thing I'm sure of right now."

Hai Duong looked at her for a long time, then nodded slightly, not saying anything more, because perhaps he understood that between the two of them, sometimes silence at the right time is more valuable than any words of comfort. He returned to the control room, and Vy returned to her chair, placed the cup of tea next to the microphone, and watched the digital clock gradually change to 22:58.

The "ON AIR" light turned bright red on time, as it did every night, as if this building, this city, was unaware of any of the bar charts that had just been flashed in the fourth-floor auditorium this morning.

"Hello to all of you who are awake with me right now." Vy started, her voice still maintained the familiar slowness, but there was a different nuance creeping in, a deeper depth than usual that she herself did not intentionally create - it just flowed out naturally, like water finding the lowest path to go. "This is Sleepless Waves, broadcast live from Cam Duong Radio and Television Station. I'm Tuyet Vy, and like every night, I'm here, with you, until one o'clock in the morning."

She read a few letters at the beginning of the program, played a few songs as requested, trying to keep the familiar rhythm, but near midnight, when reading a letter from a single mother working the night shift at a garment factory, talking about her worries about whether her job was still stable or not in the context that the factory was considering automating the line, Vy's voice suddenly stopped for a very short beat, almost unnoticed, but enough for her to hear the trembling within herself. She finished the reading, then let the song play, sitting quietly for a moment during the break, feeling the cruel coincidence between the letter writer's worries and the worries she was carrying with her all day.

At twelve fifteen, the usual call light from a familiar listener lit up — not the anonymous line, but the landline number Vy had memorized, a series of numbers that began with the old area code of the fish market near the port.

"Miss Vy, it's Mr. Ngo." The old man's voice rang out, hoarse but still full of vitality, like the familiar sound of ocean waves crashing against rocks. "I listened to the radio and found your voice strange today, slower than usual. I was afraid you were tired, so I called to ask if anything was going on."

Vy suddenly smiled, the first genuine smile throughout the long day. "You're very sharp, Mr. Ngo. I'm just a little tired, nothing to worry about."

"If you're tired, you have to rest, auntie," Mr. Ngo said, his voice somewhat stern like a grandfather admonishing his granddaughter. "But I know, with your job, you can't rest when you're tired, just like your old seafaring job, big waves and strong winds have to go out to sea, because at home waiting for you, people are waiting for you out there. She's old, her ears aren't as good as before, her eyes are blurry, but every night she picks up this radio to listen to her, because it's the only thing that still keeps her close to the sea, with the nights of being on watch when she was young. She keeps talking, she keeps listening, that's enough fun for her for one day. already."

Those words, so simple and sincere that there was no need to add anything, suddenly touched a soft place in Vy's heart that she did not expect. She thought about the data table this morning, the thin revenue column representing the night time frame, and realized that Mr. Ngo - one of the most loyal listeners for many years - probably did not exist in any of Do Bao Toan's reports, because he listened to the radio with an old device not connected to the network, leaving no trace on any modern data measurement platform, but was one of the most vivid proofs of the program's true value.

"Thank you for calling in," Vy said, her voice choked a bit but still maintaining the necessary warmth on the air. "I promise, no matter what happens, I will try my best so that every night when you turn on the radio, you can still hear my voice here."

"That sentence sounds a bit strange," Mr. Ngo said, his voice carrying a subtle questioning tone of someone who had experienced enough turmoil in life to recognize when there was something wrong hidden behind seemingly normal words. "What's going on at the station? Just tell him, maybe this old man can help."

Vy was silent for a second, considered, then chose to answer honestly enough without breaking the boundaries of a public broadcast. "It's nothing big, it's just that the station is having some changes in the arrangement, I'm also learning more. Don't worry, I'll announce anything later."

Mr. Ngo did not ask further, just spoke, his voice slow, as if he was conveying something heavier than the words. "Change is change, auntie, but when something is good, people will recognize it. I believe in you. Your father was the same in the past, when times were difficult, I listened to him speak on the radio, his voice was still as steady as a rock, never wavering. You are a lot like him, Miss Vy."

The call ended, Vy had to take a few seconds to regain her breath before continuing the program, feeling both comforted and burdened, because Mr. Ngo's words unintentionally reminded her of her responsibility not only to herself, but to hundreds of people like him, people who are not seen on any rating board.

Nearly twelve thirty, when Vy had just finished reading the letter, the anonymous line indicator light lit up, and the words "Anonymous number" appeared familiarly. Her heart skipped a beat, this time not because of the usual nervousness, but because of a feeling of both anticipation and fear - fear that if she heard his voice now, she wouldn't be able to maintain the necessary calmness on air.

"Hello, this is Sleepless Wave."

"Hello, Ms. Vy." A familiar deep voice rang out, but right from the first sentence, Vy heard an unusual attention in it, as if he had been listening to her since the beginning of the program and not just tuned in. "I've been listening since the beginning of tonight. Your voice is very different, Ms. Vy. It's not the usual tired type. There's something more serious, right?"

That subtlety made Vy close her eyes for a second, both touched and confused because she was seen through so easily, even when she tried her best to keep a calm appearance. "You're so observant," she said, her voice quiet. "I... today the station has a meeting, announcing major upcoming changes. I can't talk specifically on the air yet, but I think, this program, may no longer be the same as it is now, in the not too distant future."

She chose each word carefully, enough for an observant person like him to understand the true weight behind them, but still vague enough to not turn the broadcast into a public lament in front of thousands of listeners, not because she was afraid of losing face, but because she knew that if she let her worries take over, she wouldn't have the strength to hold on until the end of the program.

The other end of the line was silent for a long moment, long enough for Vy to wonder if she had just said too much or too little. Then White Night's voice rang out, slowly, carrying an unusual certainty. "I don't need you to be more specific, Ms. Vy. I just need to know, if someone, or something, is trying to take away what you have put your heart into for the past eighteen months, then it is a loss not only for you, but for many people, including me."

"Thank you," Vy said, her voice trembling slightly, biting her lip to keep it from breaking on the waves.

"I want to tell you something," he continued, his voice low, carrying a tone Vy had never heard before, almost a confession. "A few years ago, I had a time when I thought about quitting the job I was doing. Not because the job was too hard - I was used to the hard work - but because I found it meaningless. I stayed up all night guarding the numbers and the machines, but no one knew my existence, no one called my name when everything was running smoothly, people only remembered me when something went wrong, when something went wrong. One night, I sat alone in the kitchen. control room, watching the gauges blink, and I wondered, if I disappeared tomorrow, would anyone really remember, or would there simply be another name filled in for the shift in my place, and everything would continue as if I had never been there."

Vy was silent, listening, feeling a deep sympathy rising in her heart, because that was exactly the fear she was carrying - the fear of being replaced by something more effective, cheaper, without emotions, without a beating heart.

"But then one rainy night," he continued, his voice warming, "I turned on the radio, just to hear the sounds of people in that cold room, and I heard her voice. I don't remember exactly what she said that night, but I remember the feeling — for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn't alone in this invisible job. And I think, it was that feeling that kept me in my job, not because I suddenly found it more meaningful, but Because I know, out there, there is someone who is still awake, still believing that what she does is important, even though no one sees it. I think you are doing the same thing for many other people, Vy, even if they never call to tell you that.

Tears welled up in the corners of Vy's eyes. She had to look up at the studio ceiling for a moment to keep them from falling on the waves. "I don't know what else to say except thank you," she said, her voice so sincere it shook. "Tonight, I need to hear that more than ever."

“Then keep it,” he said, his voice as firm as a promise. "And if anyone, or anything, tries to tell you that this job isn't worth a number on a spreadsheet, please don't believe them, not for a second. I'm one of those numbers they will never measure, Vy. How many people like me are out there, no one knows, no one counts, but we are real, and we need you."

That sentence, simple yet powerful, seemed to hit right where Vy needed it most right now — not an empty word of comfort, but a reminder of the real reason why this program is worth existing, a reason that is not contained in any bar chart. She felt, amid the confusion of a long day, something beginning to crystallize in her heart, stronger, clearer—not a concrete plan, not yet, but a determination: she would not let this program disappear without a fight for it, even though she did not yet know exactly what shape that fight would take.

They talked for a while more, more gently, about everyday trivial things to ease the heavy atmosphere that had just passed, and when the time was almost over, they both fell silent for a familiar short period, knowing that it was time to close.

“The Lamp at the Cape,” White Night said, his voice gentle. "See you again, at the light of the sea, Ms. Vy."

A familiar melody rang out in the studio, and this time Vy listened to it not only with the usual warm feeling, but also with a new determination silently growing in her heart - the image of a lamp standing alone in the middle of the sea cape, its light not for itself, but for guiding strange ships in the dark night, suddenly took on a completely different meaning for her tonight: perhaps, her program was also that light, small, unprofitable. remarkable on paper, but still silently guiding so many lonely ships in this city, and she had no right to let it go out just because a spreadsheet couldn't see that light.

When the program ended, Vy sat quietly in the studio with the signal turned off, took off her headphones, and looked out the small window where Cam Duong city was still sleeping late. She thought of Mr. Ngo's words, White Night's words, her father's words in the old tape, and realized that she was no longer alone in this worry like she thought this morning when she walked out of the fourth floor hall. There are people, even though they're not sitting in that room, even though they're not seeing that cold data board, who are still on her side, in their own way.

Hai Duong walked in, sat down on the chair next to him, said nothing for a while, then spoke, his voice was low but with a new steadfastness. "I listened to the last call. Vy, I think, it's time for me to stop waiting for the three months of review to pass. I have to do something, be more proactive."

Vy turned to look at him, nodded slowly, clearly feeling, for the first time since this morning, a small but certain ray of light was shining in her heart, just like the lamp at the tip of the sea that still persistently burned regardless of the storms and waves, just because she knew that somewhere far out at sea, there were still ships that needed its light to find their way home.