Chapter 17 — Late Night Radio

On Saturday, as scheduled, Thao Nhi appeared at the small cafe near the radio station at nine in the morning, carrying an old laptop covered in stickers and a stack of printed paper, with dark circles around her eyes because she had clearly stayed up at least one night to perfect something. Vy and Hai Duong were already sitting at the table in the corner, cups of coffee in front of them untouched because neither of them were in the mood to sip anything before knowing what Thao Nhi was going to present.

"I'm sorry for making you two wake up early on the weekend," Thao Nhi said, pulling out a chair to sit down, opening her laptop, her fingers typing quickly on the keyboard with an undisguised excitement even though her body was clearly tired. "But I think I've found a direction, and I need to present it as soon as I can still keep this train of thought, lest I forget the details if I wait too long."

She turned the laptop screen towards the two of them, displaying a simple presentation with a few slides and a large title: "NON SLEEPING WAVES — BEYOND FM WAVES." "I keep thinking about what Mr. Binh said at the meeting - we need a new operating model that does not cost significantly more but still retains the soul of the program, and at the same time proves that the number of people reaching is actually higher than the traditional rating measured. And I think, the answer is not to abandon FM radio, but to bring the program parallel to the online platform - livestream every night through a social network channel, combined with cutting short segments from the program to post again the next morning, as content. can spread far beyond the hour of eleven o'clock at night."

Vy leaned closer to the screen, attentively reading the next slide, where Thao Nhi had already drawn a simple diagram: a microphone in the center, radiating out three branches - traditional FM waves, livestream videos on social networking platforms, and short clips cut back after the program. "I understand the general idea," Vy said slowly, "but I'm worried about the cost of equipment. We don't have a camera, and no one knows how to create and edit videos. If I invest in the wrong place, I lose money but the results are not as expected, giving Mr. Toan even more reason to say he doesn't know how to manage the budget."

"That's the part I've been thinking about," Thao Nhi replied immediately, clearly anticipating this question. "I don't need a professional camera right from the start. My phone and camera are good enough to livestream with good quality. I just need to add a small stand with a cheap LED light, the total cost is less than a million VND. I can learn to edit basic clips myself with a free application. I tried a few clips last night, you two can check it out." She opened a short video on her phone, only about thirty seconds, cut from the call recording of Mr. Phan Dac Ngo in an old program, subtitles running below, the background was a still image of a microphone in studio B with a familiar soft yellow light, accompanied by a gentle piece of music in the background.

Hai Duong finished watching and nodded, but his expression was still cautious. "I'm not against the idea of putting the show online, Thao Nhi. But I'm worried about something else - what makes 'Sleepless Waves' is not just the content, but its private atmosphere. People call at eleven o'clock at night, saying things they would never dare to say in broad daylight, because they believe it is a private space, only voices, no images, no one can see their faces, no one takes screenshots and posts them somewhere. If I livestream, The whole video, with live comments running across the screen, and viewers typing in text, will old listeners still feel safe to call in to confide like before, or will they withdraw, afraid of being recognized?"

That question made the whole table silent for a moment. Vy nodded, feeling that Hai Duong's worry touched exactly what she was also vaguely feeling but could not yet name. She immediately thought of White Night - a man who had kept his identity a secret for seven months, who once confessed to being afraid of the very moment the mask of anonymity was peeled away - and wondered if the program switched to a form with images and public comments, would he still dare to call in again, or would the fragile thread connecting the two of them be severed right from the very solution devised to save the program.

"Mr. Duong is right about something I've been wondering about all night," Thao Nhi said, her voice slowing down, no longer as impulsive and excited as before, but with a more thoughtful consideration. "So I don't propose turning the camera on the caller, of course, that's inherently impossible because most calls are still over the phone, not video calls. What I mean is that I just livestream the image of Ms. Vy in the studio, the camera angle is fixed, unchanged, exactly like a radio show with illustrations, not a live entertainment-style broadcast. The caller is still completely anonymous as before, their voice is still just sound, no one sees them, no one knows. Who are they? In the comments section, I will completely turn off the live chat function that appears on the screen while broadcasting - only allowing viewers to leave comments after the show ends, like a scrapbook, not a stream of text running across the screen causing distraction, interrupting the conversation."

Vy felt a little relieved, but still not completely reassured. "What about cutting the clip and posting it later? If I cut a clip of someone's call and post it online, even without the caller's image, just the voice and content of the story, sometimes that's enough for their acquaintances to recognize who it is. I can't arbitrarily take the listener's private story out as viral content without asking them first, even if the intention is good."

Thao Nhi nodded strongly and immediately took notes in the small notebook she brought with her. "You're right, that's something I haven't thought about carefully. So we need a clear rule - only cut and repost the parts that the caller has agreed to in advance, or better yet, prioritize the parts that Ms. Vy herself said, the parts that read letters that have been completely anonymized, or ask for permission directly on the air, like 'if you agree to let us reshare this conversation, please leave a signal' - somehow respecting people while still keeping it natural, not turning it into a rigid permission-seeking procedure that loses the feeling of closeness."

Hai Duong pondered for a moment, then spoke, his voice less reserved than before. "I think, if we can do it that way - keeping the anonymous, private core of the caller intact, just adding a layer of images and a new dissemination channel - then this won't necessarily turn the program into a cold digital thing like Mr. Toan wants. On the contrary, it can be the most vivid evidence that a program with soul, with real people, can still exist and develop on a digital platform, different from the automatic music playlist he intends to replace me. This is not that I am losing to the front. wave of digitalization, but I am proving that digitalization does not necessarily kill the soul of a program, if done properly."

That sentence was like a door opening, causing the atmosphere around the coffee table to change completely, from cautious reserve to a new flow of energy, although still cautious but with more hope. Vy looked at her two colleagues, feeling a warmth rising amid the worries that had piled up over the past few days — she was not alone in this fight, and perhaps, it was the differences in each person's perspective, when placed side by side, that created a more balanced solution than any of them could have come up with alone.

"So where do we start?" Vy asked, holding a pen and pulling a blank piece of paper close to her, ready to sketch out a specific plan.

"I think we need a testing period first, about a week, just internal livestream, not yet publicly announced, so that Vy can get used to having a camera in the studio, so we can adjust the process smoothly before the official launch," Thao Nhi said, flipping to the next slide that already has a timeline divided into weeks. "Then, in the second week, I officially announced it on the station's fanpage, combined with a few articles telling the story of the program - about my three sisters, about Mr. Ngo, about Ms. Xuan, about her eighteen-month journey continuing the legacy - to create initial attention. From the third week onwards, I closely monitored the data, watching the number of live viewers, the number of interactions, the number of shares, to have enough data to present to Mr. Toan before the deadline of September 20."

"As for the cost, have you calculated it yet?" Hai Duong asked, his voice already carrying the practicality of someone accustomed to having to weigh every item within the tight budget of a program that was already considered a burden.

"I've calculated it," Thao Nhi replied, flipping to the last slide, a simple cost table with a few lines. "A phone stand, LED lights, a small separate microphone to improve the sound quality when filming - because the microphone in the studio is already good for broadcasting, but a small external mic is needed to synchronize the image and sound better when playing on the video platform - a total of about two and a half million, one time only, without incurring significant monthly operating costs other than our own time and effort. Compared to the monthly personnel and operating costs of the whole program, this is almost insignificant, but can open up a completely new access channel."

Vy wrote down each number, feeling a clearer structure gradually forming in her heart for what was previously just a vague mass of anxiety. "I will present this to Mr. Binh on Monday," she said. "But I think, before presenting it to Mr. Binh, we should test it tonight, quietly, without announcing it, just to see if it actually operates as smoothly as on paper. I don't want to present it to Mr. Binh only to discover that there are unforeseen technical problems."

All three agreed, and that afternoon, Thao Nhi brought the stand, LED lights, and a new small microphone hastily bought at an electronics store near the market, to studio B earlier than usual for trial installation. Hai Duong helped her adjust the camera angle so that she did not shoot directly at the studio's sensitive equipment, only focusing on Vy sitting in front of her father's familiar microphone, with the backdrop of a warm wooden wall and the characteristic soft yellow light that has been associated with the program's image for twenty-two years.

In the evening, when the ON AIR light turned on at exactly eleven o'clock, a small phone placed on a stand began recording, not live-streamed publicly but only saved for the whole group to review later. Vy felt a bit awkward in the first few minutes, the awareness of the presence of the camera made her a bit stiff, her voice lacked its inherent naturalness, but gradually, when the calls started coming in, when she fell back into the familiar rhythm of listening and chatting, she forgot about the existence of the phone recording, letting her voice flow naturally like every night.

After the program, the three sat down to watch the recording. Thao Nhi cut a thirty-second clip from the part where Vy read a touching letter from a long-distance truck driver, added subtitles, and added light background music. When watching it again, Vy herself was surprised by the feeling the clip brought - it did not destroy the inherent privacy or warmth, on the contrary, the image of the old microphone, the yellow light, Vy's face listening attentively, seemed to further highlight the "real person" quality that an automatic music playlist could never recreate.

"I think I can do it," Vy said, her voice filled with renewed confidence, even though there was still a hint of anxiety about what lay ahead. "Not to beat Mr. Toan with numbers, but to show him, to show everyone, what this program has, not something that can be replaced by a music selection algorithm."

Thao Nhi smiled, her eyes, dark circles due to lack of sleep, now shone with true joy. "So I have a plan, Vy. Six weeks sounds short, but at least now I'm no longer standing there waiting for fate, I'm driving myself."

Hai Duong nodded and began to pack up the equipment. His eyes when looking at Vy carried a quiet pride. "Your father would be very proud if he saw you guys sitting here, trying to find a way to maintain the program with the tools that he never had. I think, this is not betraying the old to chase the new, but finding a way to let the old live on in a new form, still keeping its heart."

Vy looked out the small window of the studio, where Cam Duong city was slowly falling asleep, and in her heart, for the first time since receiving the official document on Monday morning, a feeling almost like real hope began to rekindle, fragile but steadfast, just like a lamp at the tip of the sea that still burns bright regardless of the storms, as long as there are people who still believe in it, and care for it, it will never completely go out.