Chapter 15 — Late Night Radio

Three days after the afternoon rain at Ms. Xuan's porridge shop, Vy still hadn't told anyone about that deep-voiced man, not even Hai Duong, not even Thao Nhi - she kept it like a small pebble in her pocket, occasionally touching it to make sure it was still there, still real, even though she didn't know what to do with it. There were nights when she wondered if she should go back to the bar at that hour again, waiting to see if he would stop by, but then she pushed that thought aside, reminding herself that she had too many other things to worry about, and that such a wait, whether she would admit it or not, carried with it a certain desperation that she did not want to see in herself.

The work of gathering evidence for the program continues every day. Thao Nhi has compiled a fairly complete inventory of the number of letters, text messages, and phone calls in the last six months, sorted by the sender's occupation — long-distance driver, night shift worker, hospital nurse, security guard, street vendor — a list that is surprisingly long when listed on paper, revealing a silent network of listeners that no one at the station had ever tried to systematically measure before. Hai Duong has digitized nearly half of the old tapes, finding a few precious recordings from the station's most difficult years, where Vy's father's voice still resounds regularly on the nights with the fewest listeners, as a living proof that the value of a program is not always proportional to the immediately measured number.

But on Wednesday afternoon, when Vy had just stepped into the station, preparing to stop by the editing room before the regular meeting, she received a text message from Mr. Binh, just a few words: "I'm going to your room urgently, there's something I need to talk about before the meeting." A familiar insecurity immediately arose in her heart, she quickly walked up the stairs, her heart pounding with each step.

Mr. Binh was standing, not sitting like usual, holding a printed document in his hand, his face had a serious look that was different from the fatigue he often saw before. "Mr. Toan called me up this morning to inform me of the specific timeline for the review," he said, without beating around the bush, his voice somewhat urgent as if he wanted to finish before Vy had to come down for a general briefing. "He decided to shorten the review time from three months to six weeks. At the beginning of the next quarter, the content department must submit a specific evaluation report for each nighttime program, with proposals to maintain or change the model."

Vy stood still, feeling the ground beneath her feet as if it had tilted a small angle. "Only six weeks?"

"Six weeks," Mr. Binh confirmed, his voice low. "And he made it clear that, if during that time, a program does not show signs of significant improvement in live listening, or does not propose a more cost-effective operating model, that program will be on the first list to be converted to automatic music play, applied at the beginning of the next quarter, without waiting for the end of the entire three-month review as originally announced." He stopped, looked straight into Vy's eyes, his eyes were both guilty and determined. "I haven't received the official document yet. He said the administrative department will finish preparing it to send each program next week, but I think you need to know in advance so you have time to prepare and not be passive when the official document arrives."

Six weeks. That number rang in Vy's head like a bell, much shorter than the three months she had been silently calculating and planning in her head for the past few days. She thought of Thao Nhi's statistics, the Hai Duong tapes that were still in the process of being digitized, the countless ideas still on paper that had not yet been implemented, and felt a new pressure on her shoulders, much heavier than the vague pressure she had carried from the announcement the day before.

"Thank you for the warning," Vy said, trying to keep her voice steady even though her insides were starting to get chaotic. "Six weeks, so I have to do it much faster than expected."

"That's right," Mr. Binh nodded, his voice a bit firmer than usual, as if he was encouraging himself as much as he was encouraging Vy. "I will have a private meeting with the content department this afternoon to see if there is any other way to shorten the preparation time. Just focus on the program, on what you do best, and let me and Thao Nhi take care of the part of collecting data and proposing plans. But Vy—" he hesitated for a moment, his voice quieter, "—I don't want to promise you anything for sure anymore, after the last time I accidentally made you hope too much for three months of peaceful review. This time, I can only promise, I will fight with you to the end, no matter what the final result."

That afternoon's briefing took place in a more tense atmosphere than usual, as news of the six-week mark spread quickly throughout the content department, leading to a series of worried questions from editors in charge of other programs also under review. Vy sat in the middle of those discussions, trying to keep her mind alert, recording every opinion and every suggestion, but her mind kept returning to the image of six weeks, counting down in her head like an hourglass that was flowing faster than she thought.

That night, when entering studio B, Vy carried with her both the weight of the afternoon and the unresolved residue of the vague encounter at the porridge shop a few days ago. The two mixed emotions made her feel like she was standing at a crossroads with no clear way out. The program started as usual, but her voice carried a special caution, as if every word she uttered was considered more carefully than usual, afraid of revealing too much of what was in her heart.

Near half past twelve, the anonymous line light lit up. Vy's heart skipped a familiar beat, but tonight that beat carried a new layer of meaning, a question she had never dared to ask clearly was now hovering at the threshold of her consciousness: was the voice that was about to ring out the same voice she had heard in the middle of the porridge shop the previous day in the rainy afternoon.

"Hello, Ms. Vy." A familiar deep voice spoke, and Vy listened to it with a different attention than usual, trying to compare each timbre, each rhythm with the fresh memory of the man at the porridge shop. There were similarities that made her heart ache, but there were also small differences that she wasn't sure were just embellished by her memory, or proof that the two were really not the same person.

They talked like every night, about a few trivial things first, then Vy told, her voice heavier than usual, about the six-week mark that had just been announced, without hiding as much as before, because she felt that, amidst all the uncertainty that surrounded her, this was one of the few places where she could be completely honest.

"Six weeks," White Night repeated, his voice low, carrying an undisguised worry. "It's too short, Ms. Vy. I don't know what to say to relieve your pressure, but I believe you and everyone at the station will find a way."

"I hope so," Vy said, then remained silent for a moment, feeling a strange urge rising in her heart, stronger than ever before - the urge to ask directly, to break the invisible boundary they had maintained together for the past seven months. She thought of the man at the porridge shop, of the six weeks counting down, of the feeling that everything in her life seemed to be moving faster than she could control, and she felt, perhaps, that it was time for her to know for sure—not out of curiosity, but because she was afraid that if the program really had to stop, she would lose her chance to know the truth forever.

"I have a question," she said, her voice quiet but with a tremble she couldn't hide, "and I'm not sure whether I should or not."

The other end of the line was silent for a moment, then White Night's voice rang out, slowly and cautiously. "Just ask."

Vy took a deep breath, feeling each heartbeat pounding into her throat, the words ready on the tip of her tongue - "who are you, who are you really, have I seen you somewhere" - just a breath away from being spoken out loud. But at that moment, she suddenly remembered what he had said, his voice echoed clearly in her head every night: "Sometimes I wonder, if one day you knew who I was, knew my face, knew my real name, would this still be as beautiful as it is now. I'm afraid of the answer." And she realized, the question she was about to ask was not only her own question anymore, but also a door she could push open for both of them, while he never said he was ready to step through it.

"I..." Vy hesitated, feeling the opportunity passing by every second, and at the same time, a fear grew, not fear of the answer, but fear that the very act of asking would break something so fragile that the two of them had built together, carefully little by little, for seven months. She thought about the porridge shop, about the man she wasn't sure who he was, about the six weeks counting down ahead, and wondered if she was trying to hold on too many things at once, to the point of being willing to trade even the most beautiful thing she had just for a moment of uncontrollable weakness.

"I wanted to ask," she said again, her voice taking on a different, softer tone, even though her heart was still racing as the real question had just been swallowed back. "If one day this program no longer exists, will you still find a way to keep in touch with me? In any form, not through the radio."

There was a long, very long silence, enough for Vy to wonder if she had just asked a question equally as dangerous as the one she had originally planned to ask. Then White Night's voice rang out, hoarse with obvious emotion. "Yes," he said, just one word, but with absolute certainty. "No matter what the program turns out to be, I will find a way. I promise you that, Ms. Vy. It's just... I need more time, to mentally prepare for what that way is. Can you wait for me?"

"I can," Vy said, her voice relieved, even though the original question was still hanging somewhere in the space between the two of them, unspoken, but both, in some way, felt its silent presence, like a promise that had not yet been formed but had begun to gain weight.

They talked for a while longer, both a bit more reserved than usual, as if they had just crossed a dangerous line together and were now carefully stepping back a bit to regain their balance. When it was almost time to end, neither of them mentioned anything more about the open question, both of them quietly let it pass, unanswered, but not completely gone.

“The Lamp at the Cape,” White Night said, his voice softer than usual, carrying something like an unspoken reassurance. "See you again, at the light of the sea, Ms. Vy."

A familiar melody rang out, and Vy sat quietly in the studio, listening to it with an unprecedented complex feeling - both relieved that she hadn't let that question destroy the beautiful thing that existed, both regretful that she had come so close to the truth and then let go, and also carrying the worry about the six weeks counting down ahead, like three different whirlpools meeting at one point, pulling her in directions she didn't know if she was strong enough to support or not.

When the program ended, Vy sat for a long time in the soft yellow light of the turned-off studio, looking at her father's microphone, looking at the wall calendar where the anniversary of his death was coming closer than ever, and looking out the small window where Cam Duong city was still in its late sleep, unaware that inside the five-story building at the corner of Tran Phu street and Nguyen Tat Thanh street, a girl was standing in the middle of too many intersections at the same time - a question that didn't dare to ask, a face she had not dared to confirm, and a six-week timeline is quietly passing hour by hour, waiting for no one, showing no mercy to any heart, no matter how many years that heart has devoted to a voice that still persistently speaks every night, exactly at eleven o'clock, like a promise that has never been broken.