Chapter 22 — Late Night Radio

The last days before Saturday night passed so quickly that Vy felt like she was standing on a train speeding along without brakes, waking up every morning to see a new item that needed to be resolved, a new call to answer, some small detail that had almost been missed. Thao Nhi almost completely moved out of the house, was present at the station every day from early morning until late at night, her eyes were dark but still maintained her excitement, constantly updating the number of people confirmed to attend via her fanpage - a number that far exceeded all initial predictions, making her herself cry out in surprise every time she checked the statistics. Hai Duong spent several nights in a row in the square after the broadcast to work with an outsourced technical team to test the stage, test the sound system, and re-measure each corner to ensure the sound was not echoed or swallowed up in the large outdoor space - a completely different problem from aligning sound within the four familiar soundproof walls of studio B.

As for Vy, as the day approached, another worry began to creep into her, different from the worries about logistics, about the weather, about the number of attendees - it was a very personal fear about herself, about whether she would still be herself or not, when she had to stand in front of hundreds of real faces, instead of sitting alone in the warm darkness of the studio, where she could just imagine the person listening to her on the other end of the line without having to see their eyes following every step. expression on my face.

"I'm scared," she confessed to Hai Duong on a rare evening where the two of them could sit quietly after the show ended, with only a few days left until Saturday night. "I'm afraid, when I stand in front of the microphone in the studio, I always feel like I'm whispering to a friend, no one can see me, I can be my fullest self, even at my weakest moments. But standing in the middle of the square, in front of so many eyes, in front of Mr. Toan observing my every move to make the final decision, I'm afraid I will freeze, read letters like a machine, will lose the very thing that has made this program valuable for so many years."

Hai Duong listened silently, then replied, his voice was low but steady. "Vy, do you remember the first night you sat in that chair, after your father passed away? You were also afraid of the same thing, afraid that you were just a shadow speaking your father's voice, afraid that the audience would immediately recognize the difference and turn away. But then every night, every night, you still sat there, still speaking, and gradually, that voice became your own, no longer a shadow of anyone else. I think, Saturday night will be the same. What makes 'Sleepless Waves' is not the four the studio wall, but the way you listen, the way you sincerely respond to each person who calls in. That, no matter where you stand, doesn't change, as long as you don't try to play a role other than yourself."

Those words didn't erase all the worries in Vy's heart, but they settled like a heavy pebble, keeping her from being completely swept away by the impending vortex of panic. The next night, when all the preparations were temporarily put on hold because it was raining heavily and making it impossible to continue setting up the stage, Vy decided to spend a rare morning for herself, before the busyness took her away again.

She came to the city cemetery early, when the dew had not yet completely melted from the trees along the path, carrying a simple bouquet of white chrysanthemums and the old cassette player Hai Duong had helped her recover from a few months ago, along with a tape recording her father's voice reading in an old program, recorded on a rainy night more than twenty years ago, when Vy was not yet born. She sat down in front of the simple grave, wiped away the thin layer of dust on the stone stele engraved with the name Lam Trung Hieu, then put the cassette player down next to her and pressed the play button.

Her father's voice, much younger than Vy remembered, echoed through the light noise of the old tape, warm and slow, telling about a rainy night in September of that year, about a listener who called in to tell his life story, about his belief that as long as there was one person awake to listen, the night would never be completely lonely. Vy sat quietly, listening to each sentence, tears rolling down uncontrollably, not because of pain, but because of a feeling of being reconnected, of touching a part of her father that she thought had been lost over the years.

"Dad," she said softly, her voice trembling in the quiet space of the early morning cemetery, "I'm about to do something I've never done before — stand in the middle of the square, in front of so many people, to talk about your program, to prove that it's worthy of continuing to live. I'm so scared, dad. I'm afraid I'll ruin everything you've built for twenty-two years, just because I'm not brave enough, not steadfast enough like you once were. But I also think, if you were still here, you wouldn't be here." tell you to be like dad. Dad will tell you to be yourself, even if you're nervous, even if you're clumsy, as long as you're honest with the person listening."

She sat for a while longer, letting the tape run out, letting the sound of the rain begin to fall on the trees around her, blending with the deep voice coming from the old machine, until she felt in her heart, the fear that had not completely disappeared, had been partly replaced by a new calm, like a long-time seafarer who, even though he knew there were still storms ahead, still rowed steadily because he had found his direction again.

On the way home, she stopped by Ms. Xuan's porridge shop and saw her busy preparing a larger pot of porridge than usual. Several newly purchased plastic containers with intact price tags were neatly stacked in the corner of the shop.

"What are you going to do with these boxes, miss?" Vy asked, sitting down in a familiar chair.

Ms. Xuan looked up, smiled, her eyes shining with a joy that was hard to hide. "That Saturday night, I planned to bring a load of porridge to the square, cook it on the spot, and give it out for free to people who came to listen to the program. I thought, late at night, standing outside for a long time, there would always be some hungry people, some cold people, a bowl of hot porridge at that time would be very precious. Besides," she paused, her voice lowered, taking on a more personal tone, "I also want to do something for your father, Vy. I don't know how to speak in front of a crowd like you, and I don't know how to operate machinery." Like Duong, the only thing I know how to do is cook a pot of delicious porridge, so I think this is my way to contribute to preserving the program Mr. Hieu left behind."

Hearing those words, Vy felt an indescribable warmth in her heart. She bent down to hug her aunt, feeling more clearly than ever that she was not alone in this war - around her was a whole network of quiet people, each in their own way, contributing to keep that light from going out.

That night, before the broadcast, Vy sat in the studio, looking back at the detailed schedule for Saturday night that Thao Nhi had sent via email — minute by minute, from stage setup, sound check, to opening time to the audience, to the official start of the show at eleven o'clock at night as usual, only this time, hundreds of people would be standing there, listening at the same time, instead of each person in a corner of the city, alone with their own radio or phone.

Near midnight, the anonymous line lit up and White Night's voice rang out, somewhat more relieved than the previous few nights, as if he had also overcome a certain problem in his heart.

“Two more days,” he said, his voice carrying a special gentleness. "I heard Thao Nhi posted online, the number of people confirmed to attend is very large. You must be busy and worried a lot."

"A lot," Vy replied, smiling slightly, although that smile was somewhat tired. "But I'm also looking forward to it. I just came back from my dad's grave, listening to an old tape of his, and I thought, maybe he would be proud to see his program now standing in the middle of a square, not just confined to the four studio walls."

A warm silence passed before he spoke, his voice somewhat muffled. "I'm sure you would be proud, Vy. Not because of the scale of the event, but because of the way you fought to keep it, night after night, not giving up, no matter how many reasons to let go. I wish..." he paused halfway, then continued, his voice quieter, "I wish I could stand there, in that crowd, seeing you shine the way you deserve to be seen. But like I said, I will listen, no matter where I stand that night, I will listen to it completely, without missing a minute."

"That's enough for me," Vy said, her voice softened, feeling a strange peace spread inside her heart even though she knew there were still many uncertainties ahead. "The light at the head of the sea, remember? It doesn't need the ship to dock immediately, it just needs to burn brightly, and know that someone, somewhere far out at sea, is still looking towards it."

"I'm always looking towards it," he replied, his voice more certain than she'd ever heard it. "See you again, at the light of the sea, Ms. Vy. Saturday night, wherever I am, I will be there, in my own way."

The call ended, Vy sat quietly in the familiar yellow light of the studio, unaware that promise — "wherever I am, I will be there" — carries a much more specific meaning than she can imagine right now, a meaning that will only be revealed in the most chaotic hours of the upcoming Saturday night, when the line between his silent work and the voice he sends into the darkness every night, suddenly collide in a way no one else expected. two people had predicted.

The last two days passed at a pace that was both urgent and strangely quiet, like the silence before a storm that everyone felt but no one said out loud. The stage had been set up, the sound system had been tested properly, the final posters had been posted all over the central streets, and on Friday night, when Vy stood alone in the deserted square, looking at the empty stage under the sparkling test lights reflecting on the dark sea in the distance, she felt a trembling mixture of fear and anticipation rising more intensely than ever, as if her whole life, her father's legacy, a love she had never had before. faces, all converging on a single point, only twenty-four hours away.