Chapter 30 — Late Night Radio

At half past ten in the evening, Cam Duong city began to shrink like a wave receding from the shore, just like it has always done every night for many years. Along the coastal boulevard, seafood restaurants have their tarpaulins pulled up, neon lights cast a pale orange color on the dewy road surface, and the five-story building bearing the sign "Cam Duong Radio and Television Station" still stands quietly at the corner of Tran Phu street and Nguyen Tat Thanh street, no different from the first night Vy stepped in here after her father passed away. There's just one other thing, small, but to Vy, it carries more weight than any other change in the past six weeks — a new, shiny, bronze sign, just installed on the door of studio B this morning, engraved with the words: "Lam Trung Hieu Studio."

Vy stood in front of that door for a long time, like she usually did every night before entering, only this time, her fingers gently touched each embossed letter, feeling the cold lines of metal under her skin, then placed her hand on the fingerprint lock, waiting for the familiar "click" sound. Inside, the soft yellow lights were already on, the soundproofing foam covering the four walls still swallowed up all the excess sounds of the outside world, and her father's microphone, its shiny black hanging cord, its old pop-filter screen, still stood there waiting, just like every night for the past twenty-two years, then the eighteen months after that, and now, a whole new chapter.

She sat down on the concave swivel chair left by her father, but this time, the feeling of wearing a shirt that was too large was gone. That shirt, through each night, through six weeks of fighting, through a morning standing under the lighthouse waiting for a real man to step forward, gradually fit her, not because she had become her father, but because she had found a way to be herself in that very space, carrying his legacy as a part of her, not like a shadow on her shoulder.

There was a light knock on the soundproof glass frame. Hai Duong stood next to the control room, giving two thumbs up. His salt-and-pepper hair still fell down his forehead like always, but on his chest he now had a new employee card, bearing the title "Head of Sound Engineering" - an official title for the job he had been doing silently for many years without anyone calling his name. Next to him, through the glass, Thao Nhi is sitting in front of a newly installed computer system, three bright screens displaying livestream data, live comments, and a recording application that automatically saves each broadcast number for the program's podcast archive - a small corner that has just been renovated from the old storage room, now called "Online Station."

Vy raised her hand to signal back, pulled out a chair, sat down, put on headphones, and tried her voice softly. "One two, one two, this is Sleepless Wave..." The mic test was familiar, but tonight, she realized, she was no longer saying it as a ritual to calm herself before putting on her father's voice, but simply a good evening she sent to this very room, to the microphone that had witnessed a lifetime, and was now preparing to witness another chapter.

Cao Viet Binh stuck his head through the glass door from the hallway as usual, knocked lightly twice, raised his watch to signal that there were five more minutes on air, but this time, before leaving, he stood a little longer, looking inside through the glass, his eyes carried a peace that Vy had never seen so clearly since the day her father passed away. He didn't say anything, just gently touched the door frame with his hand, right where the new bronze sign was, a small gesture but enough for Vy to understand that he was also greeting an old friend in his own way.

In the corner of the studio, on a small chair close to the wall, usually used for guests or intern technicians, Pham Nhat Minh sat quietly, wearing a thin jacket, his hands on his lap, his eyes following Vy's every gesture with gentle attention. Tonight he was off duty, and as had become a habit in recent weeks, he stopped by the station before going on air, not to interfere with her work, not to say much, just to sit there, in a quiet corner, witnessing with his own eyes what he had only been able to imagine through his voice for seven long months.

"Aren't you bored sitting here every night?" Vy asked him that a few weeks ago, during a break in the program.

"Never," he replied, "just like you don't get bored listening to hundreds of the same stories every night. Some things, the more familiar they are, the more appreciable they are, not boring."

Tonight, most of the first part of the program passed peacefully and familiarly - Vy read a few letters sent home by listeners, played songs as requested, had a short conversation with a long-distance truck driver who called in to tell the story of how the road was unusually deserted tonight, and with a student who stayed up late studying for exams complaining about the pressure of studying. The anonymous line, now no longer reserved for a mysterious name, sometimes still lights up with new voices, new stories, the program continues to be the place where this city conveys difficult things to say in broad daylight.

Near midnight, a call came from a familiar number, the slow, shaky voice of an old man rang through the speaker. "Sleepless Radio, it's old, it's old Ngo."

"Uncle Ngo," Vy said, her voice instantly warmed, a smile naturally appearing on her lips. "How are you? You haven't called in much lately, I'm worried."

"Old and healthy," he replied, toothless laughter ringing through the phone. "I called to tell you that the photo was taken on the day of the studio naming ceremony. My nephew washed it out for me. I stuck it on the wall, next to the photo of my wife. I want to see it every day, to remember, the night I stood on that stage, telling my life story to the whole city. Thank you, Vy, thank you for this station, for giving an old man a place to be listened to."

Vy felt her nose sting, but she learned how to let that emotion flow through her naturally, no longer having to suppress it like the first days. "Thank you for always being there, every night, for all these years. It's people like you that are the reason this program still exists today."

The call ended, Vy looked to the small window above the equipment rack, where the city lights still stretched sparklingly towards the port, and further, even though it could not be seen with the naked eye from here, she knew, in the north of the city, the lighthouse at Cam Duong Cape was still flashing steadily in the night, as it always did, guiding the fishing boats to find their way back, without needing anyone to remind them, without anyone needing to prove its value with any numbers. come on.

There was a moment, between two songs, a young listener messaged the fanpage, which Thao Nhi forwarded to the screen for Vy to read: "Sister Vy, I heard that in the past, there was a person named White Night who often called into the program. Where is that person now? Why don't I call in anymore?"

Vy read the message, glanced slightly at the corner of the studio where Nhat Minh was sitting, saw his eyes also looking towards her, a light smile flashed between the two, a wordless agreement. She picked up the microphone, her voice was gentle, carefully choosing each word.

"White Night is still here," she said, "only now, he doesn't need to be anonymous anymore. There are journeys that initially need darkness to begin, need an anonymous name to be brave enough to open up, but then, if we're lucky enough, patient enough, we will find a person, a place, to step into the light together. I think, that's also what 'Sleepless Waves' has always wanted to tell all of you, over the years — even at night. No matter how long, no matter how deep the darkness, there is always a light somewhere, waiting to be found."

The program continued to pass, calmly like a familiar river flowing through its heart, until the digital clock on the wall inched towards one o'clock in the morning. Vy read the last letter of the night, a short letter from a young mother who had just given birth to her first child, telling about sleepless nights because her baby cried, and about how Vy's voice became a silent companion to help her get through the most tiring hours. After reading, Vy looked up, looked through the glass, saw Hai Duong smiling, saw Thao Nhi giving a thumbs up, saw Nhat Minh still sitting in the corner of the room, his gentle eyes never leaving her.

"So it's one o'clock in the morning," she said, her voice slow, warm, in the rhythm her father had taught her from her first days trembling in front of the microphone. "Thank you all for staying up with me tonight, on the familiar FM radio, or through the phone screen where you are listening to the livestream. Tomorrow, I will be here again, exactly at eleven o'clock at night, like I have always been here, like my father has been here twenty-two years before me. This is Sleepless Wave, I am Tuyet Vy, and now, I wish the whole city of Cam Duong a good night's sleep, or if you are still awake, see you tomorrow night."

The "ON AIR" light above the door gradually turned off, turning from bright red to dark, and Vy took off her headphones and sat quietly for a while in the soft yellow light of the studio, letting the quiet moment after each broadcast night settle in like always. Hai Duong pushed the door and walked in, followed by Thao Nhi who was yawning but still smiling, and Nhat Minh stood up from the chair in the corner of the room, walked closer, and gave her a bottle of water with the cap already screwed on, a small but familiar gesture that has become an indispensable part of her rhythm at the end of each night.

"Is today okay?" he asked, his voice was low, slow, familiar like seven years ago, but now accompanied by a real look, a real smile, a real hand gently placing on her shoulder.

"It's okay," Vy replied, leaning her head slightly towards him for a brief moment, fully feeling the warmth of something that was no longer fragile, no longer only existing in her imagination. "Today is better than fine."

She stood up, turned off the small table lamp, looked back at the studio before leaving - her father's microphone still stood quietly waiting for tomorrow night, the bronze sign engraved with his name glowed dimly under the hallway light shining through the glass door, and outside the small window above the equipment rack, Cam Duong city was still in its late sleep, the waves were still lapping steadily against the rocky shore under the moonlight, and somewhere, north of the city, the lamp at the sea cape was still burning. morning, no need for anyone to witness, no need for anyone to prove, just quietly doing what it always does - waiting, leading the way, and believing that, no matter how long the night is, there will always be ships that can find their way back.

And somewhere among the thousands of roofs of Cam Duong tonight, in cramped motel rooms, in the cockpits of overnight buses, in the duty rooms of factories that never sleep, that slender FM wave continues to resonate regularly every night, carrying a voice that is no longer someone's shadow, but itself - warm, slow, sincere - continuing a twenty-two year legacy with a story of its own, until morning, and forever more. the following night.