Chapter 4 — Late Night Radio

Two days after the rainy night, Vy still couldn't get over the feeling of entanglement from that unfinished call. It wasn't because the man who called White Night said anything special — if you looked purely at the content, it was just a short conversation, an unfinished story about an old friend who worked as a watchman. But there was something in the way he punctuated his sentences, in the way he talked about "having to stay awake so others can sleep peacefully", that stuck in her mind like a melody that you heard once and couldn't forget.

That afternoon, before the broadcast, Vy went down to the basement of the station building, where the old storage room still kept hundreds of magnetic tapes, CDs, and later hard drives that saved all the "Sleepless Waves" programs over the past twenty years. The room was damp, the smell of old paper and magnetic tape mixed together to form a characteristic smell that Vy used to silently call "the smell of time".

She rummaged through the drawer with the year and month written down in order, until she found an old cardboard box with a familiar handwritten note: "Personal archive — L.T. Hieu — do not delete." Inside were dozens of hand-recorded CDs, each with a date, programs her father had privately backed up for reasons no one knew — perhaps because those were nights he found special, conversations he didn't want lost in the public archive.

Vy brought a stack of discs to the small office next to the studio, where there was still an old CD player that no one used. She randomly selected a disc, dated it ten years ago, put it in the player, and pressed the play button.

Her father's voice rang out, so deep and familiar that Vy had to close her eyes for a moment to endure the sharp pain running down her spine. "Tonight, Cam Duong has a monsoon coming early, the temperature drops suddenly, everyone remembers to stay warm. I just received a letter from a bus driver, writing that every night on the route, he turns on the radio to listen to the program to avoid sleepiness when going through deserted roads in the pass..."

She sat quietly and listened to the entire nearly two-hour long tape, tears falling without her realizing it, not because of pure grief, but because of a much more complex feeling - missing her father so much, while also being surprised to realize that in his voice there was a confidence, a leisureliness that she had never had, even though she had tried to imitate his every breath, every punctuation for the past eighteen months.

There was a knock on the door. Hai Duong walked in, holding two cups of coffee. Seeing Vy sitting in front of the CD player with red eyes, she paused for a moment, then quietly put the coffee cups on the table, pulled out a chair to sit next to her without saying anything.

“Are you listening to dad's old tapes,” he said, not a question.

Vy nodded and quickly wiped away her tears. "I kept thinking about the call the other day, that person calling White Night. Then suddenly I wanted to hear Dad's voice again, see how Dad handled such difficult calls in the past."

Hai Duong was silent for a moment, taking a sip of coffee, his distant eyes as if recalling some memory. "I remember, when Mr. Hieu had only been doing the program for a few years, there was a listener who called in very regularly, without giving his real name, just saying he was a 'lightkeeper'. He told stories about the sea, about stormy nights, about the loneliness of the person keeping the light for ships at sea. Mr. Hieu liked that person so much, he spent the last half hour of the program every week to talk privately with him."

"And then what?" Vy asked, her voice hoarse with emotion.

"Then one day, that person stopped calling. No one knows why. Mr. Hieu was sad for several weeks, keeping a quiet moment in the program as if waiting for him to call back, even though he knew it might never come." Hai Duong looked at Vy, his eyes softened. "I'm not telling you this to make you worry. I just want to say, this profession is like that — I open my heart to strange voices, sometimes they stay for a long time, sometimes they disappear without saying goodbye. But that doesn't stop me from opening my heart."

Vy remained silent, nodded, carefully put the CD back in its case, as if she was keeping something more precious than the sound recorded on it.

That evening, before the broadcast, she stopped by Ms. Xuan's night porridge shop, hidden in a small alley just a few hundred meters from the station, where warm yellow filament lights radiated from the low eaves, and the fragrant smell of onion porridge crept out to the end of the alley. This is where Vy still visits several times a week, both to have a quick meal before a long night shift, and to sit next to the only remaining relative who truly understands her, not through work, but through blood.

Ms. Xuan, Vy's father's younger sister, was sitting on a low stool, her hand quickly scooping porridge for a driver who had just pulled over. Seeing Vy, she waved her hand, her voice ringing loudly, typical of a long-time trader. "Vy! Come here, scoop up a hot bowl, eat until you have the strength to stay up all night."

Vy sat down at a low plastic table close to the wall and accepted a bowl of hot porridge, steam rising into the small space. Ms. Xuan sat down opposite, wiped her hands on her worn apron, and looked at her niece with the delicate observation eyes of an experienced person.

"You look different today," Ms. Xuan said, without beating around the bush. "Is something wrong?"

Vy gently stirred the bowl of porridge, hesitated for a moment before telling the story, her voice getting smaller with each sentence - about the call on the rainy night, about the man calling himself White Night, about the unfinished story, about the strange feeling that lingered forever.

Ms. Xuan listened attentively, occasionally nodding. When Vy finished speaking, she sighed lightly and her eyes became distant. "You know, your father was like that in the past. There were nights when he came home, he sat absent-mindedly on the porch for an hour. When she asked what was going on, he just said 'Honey, someone called into the radio today, telling a story that I couldn't get out of.' That's my job - I open the door for so many people to come into my heart, some stay for one night, some stay for many years, but I don't get to choose who will stay longer."

"I'm scared," Vy confessed, her voice so quiet that it was almost loud enough for only herself to hear. "I'm afraid I'm looking for something in this stranger, just because I'm trying to fill the void you left behind. I'm afraid I can't distinguish between my real feelings and what I'm playing your role."

Ms. Xuan reached across the table, grabbed her niece's hand, and squeezed it gently. "Just because you are my father's child, doesn't mean you have to relive your father's life. Your father has his voice, there are people he has been close to for twenty-two years. You have your voice, even though it sounds like him, and you will have people who are attached to you, in a completely unique way. Don't be afraid to open your heart, Vy. The biggest fear is that you close your heart just because you're afraid of being like your father, and then in the end you'll no longer be anyone."

Vy sat quietly, letting those words slowly sink into her heart, the choking feeling in her throat gradually subsided with the warmth of the bowl of porridge, with Ms. Xuan's calloused but warm hand still holding her hand.

A truck driver sitting at the next table, perhaps overhearing part of the story, turned to contribute with a sincere voice. "Miss Vy, I drive long distances and listen to your radio every night. I'll be honest, it's not because you're like your father, but because there are nights when you say something, I feel like you're talking to me privately. That can't be imitated by anyone, even if they're their own children."

Vy turned and smiled at that strange man, a rare sincere smile in recent days. "Thank you," she said, her voice warm. "You saying that makes me feel much better."

Before leaving the restaurant, Ms. Xuan put a small package of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves into Vy's hand, as always, giving instructions. "Remember to eat more of this in the middle of the show when you're on air tonight. Don't let your stomach become hungry and your voice weakens. Besides, if the other person calls back, don't be so quick to guess, just listen with your real ears and you'll know what to do."

Vy walked out of the alley, the light from the porridge shop casting her long shadow on the wet street left over from the rain two nights ago. The sea breeze blew in, bringing with it a cool breeze. She pulled her coat closer to her body and walked quickly towards the lit radio building at the end of the street.

On the way, she thought about Ms. Xuan's words — "just listen with your real ears" — and wondered if tonight, as she sat in the familiar swivel chair in studio B, she could listen not only with the ears that had been used to imitating her father for twenty-six years, but with her own heart, which had never been challenged in this way before.

The "ON AIR" light had not yet turned on, but in Vy's heart, something was silently moving, like water slowly changing currents under the quiet surface of a sea night that seemed like any other night.