Chapter 27 — Late Night Radio

At 12:15 on Tuesday night, between two songs, Vy reached for the small piece of paper that had been folded into quarters next to the microphone from the beginning of the show. Her hand was a bit cold even though the studio still maintained its familiar temperature. Hai Duong, behind the soundproof glass, saw her open the piece of paper, immediately understood that this was the moment she had warned him about in the afternoon, and immediately lowered the background music volume to the minimum level, leaving an absolute space for her voice to resonate.

"Before continuing with tonight's program," Vy said, her voice slower than usual, carrying a cautiousness that she tried to hide as naturally as possible, "I want to take a minute, not to read someone's letter, but to send something myself, to someone who I believe is listening to me right now, somewhere in this city."

She paused, a short silence, just as her father had taught her, to let the audience take a breath before moving on. "For the past seven months, there has been a song that has often sounded on our waves on rainy nights, a song about a lonely light standing at the tip of the sea, burning brightly not for itself, but to guide strange ships in the dark of night. I always thought it was just a beautiful image, a metaphor for us to preserve together. But recently I learned that such a light really exists, standing on a cliff north of the city that people still call it. is Cam Duong Cape, burning brightly every night, flashing regularly, waiting for the fishing boats to find their way back."

Vy gently squeezed the microphone, feeling her heart beat faster, trying to keep her voice steady even though she was trembling inside. "If anyone is listening to me right now, the person who still says 'see you again, at the light of the sea' every time he ends a call with me — I want to say that, this time, I no longer want to meet in a casual sentence in the middle of an invisible wave. This Sunday morning, nine o'clock in the morning, I will stand at the foot of that light, in real life, in the middle of the day, with no microphone, no phone lines between the two of us. I will stand there, waiting, Not because I'm sure that person will come, but because I think it's time for me to take a step myself, instead of just sitting here and waiting forever." She took a breath, her voice softening at the last sentence. "No one is forced to appear. But if he comes, I will be there. And now, please listen to the same song again, 'The Lamp at the Cape'."

The familiar melody rang through the speakers, slowly, passionately as always, but tonight, to thousands of people listening, it was simply a beautiful song played in the middle of the night, a random detail in a program that was always full of poetry. Only three people in Cam Duong city that night fully understood the true weight of the words that had just been spoken — Hai Duong, sitting quietly behind the mixer, eyes a little teary; Miss Xuan, sitting in the small room behind the closed porridge shop, clutching the old radio as if holding her granddaughter's hope; and a man, sitting alone in the duty room of the Cam Duong Clean Water Plant, his hands shook so much that the tea cup placed on the table almost fell over.

Pham Nhat Minh sat motionless for a long time after the song ended, his ears still ringing from what he had just heard, as if the whole familiar duty room, even the hum of the pump outside, had suddenly become strange, no longer the world he had been familiar with for many years working the night shift. I know. She already knew. There was no doubt that the way she mentioned "the light at the head of the sea", the way she said "see you later" in the same words he always said to her every night, all could have only one explanation - that Saturday night, when he blurted out his name in the panic of a technical problem, she heard it, put it together, and now, she was holding out her hand, inviting him to step through the door that he, for the past seven months, had never seen before. brave enough to open it.

He stood up, walked out of the on-call room, and walked along the concrete hallway leading to the outdoor area, where the night sea breeze blew through rows of giant water pipes. He stood there for a long time, looking towards the city, where the beams of high-voltage lights sparkled in the distance, trying to imagine the miniature room where Vy had just said those words, trying to imagine her face at that time - probably shaking, trying to suppress a great emotion behind a voice that still tried to maintain professional composure.

The old fear, which had haunted him for so many months, immediately resurfaced, stronger than ever. He thought about the short marriage that had broken down many years ago, about the times he tried to open up to a real person, in the flesh, and always ended up feeling like he wasn't enough, that he was clumsy, that he disappointed people in ways he never quite understood. He thought about how for the past seven months, behind the scenes, he was able to be the best version of himself — slow, thoughtful, knowing how to listen, knowing how to choose every word before saying it — just because no one saw him flustered, no one saw him clumsily find words, no one saw his hands tremble every time he had to face someone important to him directly. If you step into Cape Cam Duong this Sunday morning, all those protective shells will disappear, and you'll be left alone, naked, with no phone line to hang up on if things get too much.

But there was something else, stronger than that fear, that had been growing inside him since the moment he heard her voice ring out through the small radio. He remembered Saturday night, how she still maintained her composure and professionalism to complete the emergency announcement even though her heart must have been shaking as violently as his at that time. He remembered all the rainy nights she had been there, listening to him tell unfinished stories about his career, about the loneliness of someone who had to stay awake so others could sleep peacefully, never once showing signs of fatigue, never once forcing him to be anyone other than himself. If there was one person in this world who deserved to be given the truest, clumsiest version of himself, it was her.

The remaining days before Sunday passed strangely slowly for both of them, even though they were on completely different ends of the city. Vy continued to host the show every night as usual, trying to keep her voice calm, but Hai Duong, who knew her better than anyone, noticed the unusually small silences between sentences, the times she looked out the window longer than necessary. The anonymous line, since the night the invitation was sent, had not lit up again — not because Nhat Minh no longer wanted to call, but because he, for the first time in seven months, felt like anything he could say over the phone now became small, not enough, compared to what was waiting ahead.

Friday, two days before the date, Nhat Minh stood in front of the mirror of his small apartment room for a long time, looking at his skinny face, the calluses on his hands, trying to imagine how she would look at him when they first met him - would she be disappointed, when the real person standing in front of her turned out to be just a quiet engineer, nothing special except a deep voice and a habit of staying up all night. He opened the closet, took out the only white shirt that was relatively new, hung it carefully on the hook, then sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands, letting his chaotic thoughts wash over him.

There was a moment, Saturday night, with only twelve hours left until the appointment time, when he almost decided not to go. He sat down to write a message to his elderly colleague at the factory, asking to change shifts on Sunday morning, but his finger stopped right before the send button, his mind suddenly flashed the image of her standing alone at the foot of the lamp, waiting, and then gradually understood that he would not come, that those seven months, all the words he had ever said and written, were in the end just an escape with a beautiful cover. He thought of the words she had said on air — "I think, it's time for me to take a step myself" — and felt ashamed of his own hesitation, when the woman he loved most had the courage to step into the light, and he was still sitting here, considering whether to hide for the last time or not.

He deleted the unsent message, put the phone down, then lay down on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, trying to force himself to take a short nap before dawn, but his eyes kept fluttering open, his mind spinning between the image of her standing under the lamp and the fear of the moment she looked straight into his eyes for the first time.

Sunday morning, the sky in Cam Duong was rare and clear, the calm sea surface shone silver in the early morning sunlight. Vy woke up at five in the morning, even though the appointment was four hours away, sat in front of the mirror and changed her shirt three times, finally choosing the same simple white shirt she usually wore in the studio - she wanted him, if he came, to see her as she is every night, not some other version with more elaborate makeup. Ms. Xuan, knowing the story from before, had given her many instructions since last night, and even stuffed a small package of cakes into her pocket "to have something to invite people to have breakfast, to ease the awkwardness".

At half past seven, Vy was at the foot of the slope leading to Cam Duong Cape, more than an hour earlier than the scheduled time, unable to sit still at home another minute. She stood looking up at the small white lighthouse standing quietly on the cliff, the red chimney at the top, the light had been turned off since dawn, only a gentle pillar in the morning sunlight, different from the glowing image she imagined every night when she heard White Night mention it. She sat down on a rock near the entrance, looking out at the ocean, her heart beating in a rhythm she had never experienced in her life — not the excitement before the broadcast, not the fear of the crowd in the square, but a naked wait, no script, no one counting down to help her, just her, alone, and the question of whether the other person would come or not.

At the same time, not far away, Nhat Minh was standing in the small parking lot at the foot of the slope. The old motorbike's engine had been turned off for a few minutes but he was still sitting on the saddle, his hands clasped on the handlebars, looking up at the trail leading up to the cliff, where one could faintly see the figure of someone sitting alone near the foot of the lamp. His heart beat so fiercely that he felt like his whole chest was vibrating with each beat, and in a short but terrifyingly clear moment, his hand was on the car key, ready to restart the engine, turn around and leave, letting everything stop forever at a beautiful voice in the darkness, never having to face the risks of a real morning, a real sunlight, a real look waiting to judge him.

But he didn't turn the key. He sat there, took a deep breath, looked up at the small figure waiting patiently on the cliff in the distance, and remembered all the nights she had stayed with him through the waves, never once leaving in the middle no matter how long he was silent, how many times he hesitated before saying something difficult. If she had been able to be patient with him for seven long months, he told himself, his hands trembling as he pulled the key out of the lock, he would at least owe her one morning, even if it was just to stand in front of her and say that he had come, no matter how trembling.

He got out of the car and took the first steps up the slope, the morning sun shining on the back of his still-straight white shirt, each step felt heavy as if carrying seven months of waiting, both fear and hope were constantly tugging in his chest. Up there, Vy, still sitting with her back to the slope, eyes looking out to sea, had no idea that, after all the nights with only her voice for company, the first steps of a real person, were coming closer to her than ever.