Chapter 8 — Late Night Radio

There are nights when nothing happens, and that nothingness becomes the heaviest thing. On Wednesday night of the fourth week since the letter appeared, Vy sat in her familiar chair in studio B with a vague feeling of insecurity that she couldn't name right away. It was only when the program had passed halfway that she realized: for five consecutive days White Night didn't call, didn't text, and didn't have any sign that he was still there, on the other side of the wave.

Five days wasn't unusual — he'd been silent for longer than that on previous occasions. But this time is different. This time, after the letter, after the night she read part of his most private words on air in front of thousands of people, that silence carried a different weight — it made Vy wonder if she had crossed the line, if sharing a piece of the letter, even though carefully selected, despite trying to respect the boundaries he set, would make him feel betrayed, revealing a part of himself that he was not ready for the world to hear.

She read mail, played music, answered a few other calls during the night with a professionalism that on the outside no one noticed anything was wrong, but inside, her eyes kept gliding towards the silent landline phone, the call light was dark for three hours. There was a time when she caught herself holding her breath every time a ringing sound rang out from the control room next door, then realized with disappointment that it was just Hai Duong's cell phone, or a call from another listener's familiar number.

"Are you okay?" Hai Duong asked through the internal microphone, his voice was soft but enough for Vy to clearly hear his undisguised concern. "I've noticed you've been looking at your phone all this time."

Vy forced a smile, even though she knew Hai Duong couldn't see that expression through the foggy soundproof glass. "I'm fine, brother. It's just...nothing." She paused, then spoke more, her voice lower, as if admitting something she didn't want to admit to herself. "He hasn't called these days. I keep wondering if it's because of the night I read the letter on the air."

Hai Duong was silent for a moment, then replied, with a calm voice as always, he gave Vy important advice. "Maybe yes, maybe not. But do you remember what I told you, the day you listened to your father's tape again? I opened my heart to strange voices, sometimes they stayed for a long time, sometimes they disappeared without saying goodbye. Don't rush to conclude it's your fault. Maybe he's simply too busy with work."

That comforting word helped Vy calm down somewhat, but it did not completely erase the feeling of emptiness that kept growing in her chest throughout the rest of the program. She realized, with a bit of panic, that she had let a man she had never met, and never knew his real name, become so important that his absence for a few days was enough to make her entire broadcast go out of tune, like a song missing an important note that only the player would notice.

The next morning, Vy arrived at the station earlier than usual for a briefing with the content department — a regular meeting every two weeks where programs report on ratings, listener feedback, and upcoming plans. The small meeting room on the third floor smelled of brewed coffee from an old thermos, and the daylight shining through the large window created a completely different feeling from the dark and warm space of the night studio she was used to.

Mr. Cao Viet Binh sat at the head of the table, flipping through a few pages of printed reports. His face today seemed more tired than usual, the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes deepened under the fluorescent light. He was the one who stood up to defend Vy before the board of directors the day she asked to take over the program, her father's old professional friend, and during the past eighteen months, he has always been a silent, quiet but firm support.

"This week's Sleepless Wave program is stable," Mr. Binh said, his voice monotonous according to his reporting habits, but Vy noticed a slight hesitation in the way he hesitated before moving on to the next part. "The amount of live listening hasn't increased but it hasn't decreased either, the interaction on the fanpage has increased thanks to Thao Nhi's posts. Good."

He closed the report, looked around the meeting room, where only a few editors in charge of other time frames were sitting, then his eyes lingered on Vy a little longer than necessary. "There's one thing I think I should tell you in advance so you won't be surprised, even though I don't know anything specific yet." He lowered his voice, even though there was no one in the room other than the internal group. "In recent weeks, on the fifth floor there have been more closed meetings than usual, between the board of directors and representatives of the parent corporation. I vaguely heard, not sure, that they are reviewing the operating costs of each time frame, comparing it with the advertising revenue brought in. There has been no decision yet, and no one has said directly which programs will be affected. But I think, as the head of the department, I should tell you early, instead of letting you hear from unofficial sources. bewildered."

The room was silent for a moment. An editor in charge of the morning program asked, his voice a bit worried. "So is there a possibility of reducing staff, Mr. Binh?"

"I don't know," Mr. Binh answered honestly, shaking his head slightly. "Nothing specific yet. Maybe just a routine review like every year, after that nothing changes. But I also don't want to hide it from you guys, because I think everyone has the right to know what's going on upstairs, even if it's just a rumor."

Vy sat still, feeling a cold air creeping into her chest, not exactly like obvious fear, but like a distant gray cloud slowly approaching, not close enough to obscure the sun, but enough for people to start paying attention, starting to glance at the sky more often. She remembered the name Do Bao Toan that was announced on the air a few weeks ago, remembered the rumors she heard vaguely from colleagues about his strong management style, about his belief in data over emotions. She wondered if "Sleepless Waves" — a show that relies entirely on a living voice, on hand-read letters, on unscheduled phone calls — would be among the first to be compared to an automated music playlist that plays all night long without a human being awake.

"Thank you for saying it first," Vy said, trying to keep her voice calm even though her mind was starting to panic. "If there is anything more specific, please let us know soon."

Mr. Binh nodded, his eyes when looking at Vy had something both considerate and guilty, like a father who doesn't want his child to worry but can't hide the truth forever. "I'll let you know as soon as I have news. Besides, Vy—" he hesitated a bit, his voice was lower, just loud enough for her to hear while everyone was packing to leave, "—your program is still the program with the highest number of loyal listeners on the station, even though the number of live listeners can't compare with some daytime entertainment channels. I know its true value is not all in the ratings. I will do my best to protect it, like I promised your father."

Vy nodded, her throat was choked, she couldn't say anything more, just smiled slightly in thanks and left the meeting room, walking out into the hallway where the daylight slanted through the large glass window, a light that was unfamiliar to her, because most of her professional life took place under the soft yellow light of the studio at night.

That afternoon, instead of going home to rest as usual before the evening shift, Vy went to the basement storage room, where she had found her father's box of CDs a few weeks ago. She searched again, this time choosing another disc, dated twelve years ago, one of the years when the station was still financially difficult, before Vy was old enough to understand what her father's job was.

She brought the disc to the small office, put it in the player, and pressed play. Her father's voice rang out, younger than the voice she remembered from recent memories, but still carrying all that characteristic calmness and slowness. "Tonight I received news, perhaps many of you who listen to the radio also heard, that our station is having financial difficulties, some programs may have to reduce their time. I don't want to hide this from you, because I think, you deserve to know the truth, just like I always try to tell you the truth every night through this airwave. But I also want to say, no matter what happens, I believe that the value of a real voice, a real listening, will never be All measured by the numbers on the report card, we just keep going, as long as we can, as wholeheartedly as ever."

Vy sat silently, tears rolling down uncontrollably, not because of grief, but because of a strange sense of duplicity across time — her father, twelve years before, had faced a similar gray cloud, had also had to reassure listeners with his own belief in the value of work, and now, his daughter was sitting listening to the same voice again, preparing to face another version of the same anxiety.

She turned off the phone, wiped her tears, looked out the small window where the afternoon light was fading, giving way to the familiar darkness of a broadcast night about to begin. She thought of what her father said in the tape — "we keep going, as long as we can, as wholeheartedly as ever" — and told herself, whether the anonymous line was lit tonight or not, no matter how much closer the gray clouds on the fifth floor drew closer, she would still sit in that chair, put on her headphones, and speak, at exactly eleven o'clock at night, like a promise she had never said but had silently kept for the past eighteen months.

That night, the anonymous line remained silent. Vy ended the program with a familiar emptiness but this time heavier than usual, carrying both worries about the gray cloud on the fifth floor and the prolonged absence of a voice she had let become an indispensable part of her nights. She turned off the studio lights, looked back at her father's microphone one last time before leaving, and wondered, in that quiet darkness, whether tomorrow the line would light up again.