Chapter 5 — Late Night Radio

For nearly a week after the rainy night, the anonymous line did not light up again. Vy realized that she had started a new habit that she did not intend to do — every night, as soon as she sat in her chair, her eyes would glance at the landline phone first, before even checking the song list or listener letters. She blamed herself a few times for that unreasonable wait, but as it approached eleven o'clock at night, the habit would repeat itself, like a reflex she couldn't control.

Saturday night, the sky was clear, not a drop of rain, completely different from the previous fateful night. Vy had almost given up on the idea that the man would call back, telling herself that perhaps it was just an impromptu call, a fleeting emotion on a lonely rainy night, then he, like many other listeners, would quietly disappear without a trace, like the story Hai Duong once told about the "lighthouse keeper" in the past.

At twelve thirty at night, when the program had gone through two-thirds of its duration, the call light suddenly lit up, with the familiar words: "Anonymous number."

Vy's heart skipped a beat. She quickly glanced through the glass and saw that Hai Duong had also recognized her, nodding softly as a word of silent encouragement. She pressed the receive button, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible even though her heart was restless.

"Hello, this is Sleepless Wave."

"Hello, Ms. Vy." The familiar deep voice rang out, and this time there was a gentler intimacy than before, as if the distance between the two had been shortened just a little by just a single call from before. "I'm White Night. I'm sorry for disappearing these past few days, it wasn't my intention."

"I heard your voice," Vy replied, and was surprised to realize that a smile was naturally forming on her lips, even though no one could see it beyond the soundproof glass. "I was kind of... hoping you'd call back. You hung up so suddenly last night, leaving behind an unfinished story."

"I know," the man said, sounding genuinely guilty. "That night there was an emergency at my work, I had to leave immediately, I didn't have time to explain. But all these days I kept thinking, I told you half the story, then left you with an unfilled void. I feel guilty."

"So can you continue today?" Vy asked, her voice gentle and encouraging, forgetting about her role as a professional MC and letting her true emotions lead the story.

There was a short silence, not like the hesitation from before, but more like a person arranging his thoughts neatly before speaking. "The old friend I told you about the other day, he passed away a few years ago. He worked as a watchman for nearly forty years, until a few months after retiring, when he became seriously ill. When I last visited him in the hospital, he told me a sentence that I always remember: 'All my life I stayed awake so that people could sleep peacefully, but now that I'm lying here, I can't sleep, I keep staying awake, like a habit that's in my blood, I can't get rid of it.'"

Vy remained silent, letting the story sink into her heart, feeling a deep sadness spreading in her chest. "That sentence sounds both beautiful and painful," she said softly.

"That's right," White Night replied. "From that day on, every time I feel tired with my work, I remember what he said. It reminds me that there are silent sacrifices that no one sees, but that doesn't mean it's meaningless. I think, maybe that's also the reason I came to your program. I heard your voice, and I feel like you also understand that feeling - the feeling of doing something important but no one sees your face while doing it."

"I understand," Vy said, her voice lower and more sincere than ever during her eighteen months hosting the show. "My father did this job before me, twenty-two years ago. He died right in the studio, mid-air. From that day on, I continued with the show, but there are nights when I wonder if I'm really doing my job, or just trying to keep his voice from shutting off completely."

She never said this to any listener on air, even in press interviews after her father's death. But to this strange man, those words flowed out naturally like flowing water, without effort, without fear of being judged.

The other end of the line was silent for a long time, then White Night's voice rang out, surprisingly slow and warm. "I think you are doing your own job, Ms. Vy. A shadow cannot make people as emotional as I was just moved when I heard you speak. Only a real person, with a real heart, can do that."

Vy bit her lip lightly, feeling stinging in the corners of her eyes. She had to take a deep breath to keep her voice from shaking on the air. "Thank you," she said, and that was it, because she knew if she said anything else her voice would crack.

To break that heavy but warm silence, she asked, her voice trying to be gentle again. "Would you like to hear a certain song? As a small gift for tonight's conversation."

"Yes," White Night replied immediately, without thinking, as if he already had the answer. "Do you have a song called 'The Light at the Cape'? It's my old friend's favorite song. He said it reminded him of the nights he was alone at the watch station, looking out at the dark sea, only his light was on."

Vy quickly typed into the search system and found the song in the station's database, a composition that was not too famous but was still preserved from previous years. She signaled Hai Duong to prepare, then responded with a relieved voice. "Yes, I found it. I'll give it to you right now, for you, and for the old friend who taught you that saying."

The melody resounds, slowly, painfully, talking about a lonely light standing at the tip of the sea, its light not for itself, but for guiding strange ships. Vy closed her eyes, listening at the same time as the man on the other end of the line, imagining two people sitting in two completely different spaces of the city, but sharing the same melody, a moment, like two lights far apart that can still shine in the same direction.

When the song was almost over, White Night spoke up, his voice a bit regretful. "I have to go, my routine check-up is coming up soon. But this time I promise, I'll call back. Maybe not every night, but I'll try, whenever I can."

"I'll wait," Vy said, then, a little confused by her own sudden candor, hastily added, "I mean — the show is open to you, any night."

He laughed softly through the phone, a short but warm laugh, the first time Vy heard his real laughter. "I understand what you mean. Thank you for listening to me, Ms. Vy. Hello."

The line disconnected, leaving Vy sitting there, her heart beating strangely fast, a feeling she had never had with any other call in her entire career. She looked through the glass and saw Hai Duong looking at her with a small smile, saying nothing, just slightly nodding, as if he had understood something that Vy herself had not yet dared to name.

The program continued until nearly one o'clock in the morning. Before closing, Vy read a short message Mr. Cao Viet Binh sent via email this afternoon, instructing her to inform the entire crew in the newsletter at the end of this week's program. She held the printed paper, her voice was even, trying not to reveal any insecurity rising in her heart.

"Before ending the program tonight, I have a short announcement from the station's board of directors. In the near future, Cam Duong Radio and Television Station will welcome a new general director, dispatched by the parent media group, Mr. Do Bao Toan, who will be directly in charge of the station's development orientation in the upcoming period. Specific information about the inauguration time will be updated later."

After she finished reading, she felt a strange aura creep into the warm space she had experienced just a few minutes ago, like a gray cloud suddenly passing across the clear sky. She didn't know much about that man named Do Bao Toan. She only heard vaguely from a few colleagues that he was famous for his drastic cuts at other local stations he was in charge of, that he believed in data rather than emotions, in automated playlists rather than living voices reading handwritten letters every night.

But tonight, that thought only passed through Vy's mind like a small ripple, not enough to drown out the strange warm feeling that still lingered from the conversation with White Night. She ended the show with a familiar greeting, turned off the microphone, took off her headphones, and sat quietly for a moment in the soft yellow light of the studio.

Hai Duong walked in, sat down on the chair next to her, looked at her with eyes that were both questioning and as if he already knew the answer. "Tonight is a different night, isn't it?"

Vy nodded, a gentle, slightly confused but genuine smile on her lips. "Yes. I think... something has just started, but I don't know what to call it yet."

She looked out the small window, where Cam Duong city was still in a quiet night, the sparse street lights were like stars falling to the ground. Somewhere out there, in a corner of the city she didn't know exactly where, there was a man looking up at the night sky, carrying the melody of the song about the light at the sea cape still echoing in his head, and a promise to return, even though the date and time were not set.

Vy stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked out of studio B, leaving behind a turned-off microphone, a silent room, and a fragile but persistent feeling that was quietly taking root in her heart — as if after eighteen months of only looking back, looking for the shadow of her deceased father, for the first time she felt like she was gently taking a step forward, towards something completely new, without a shape, without a name, but truly belonging to her. Miss.