Chapter 1 — Music Sent After School

The radio room is muted

On her first day at Binh Minh High School, Ha An Nhien got lost three times before finding building C. The first time, she stood in front of the biology laboratory because she heard the sound of the ventilation fan sounding exactly like the air conditioner in her father's office. The second time, she stepped onto the basketball court and a ball grazed the cream bow in her hair. The third time, she followed the sign with the words peeling off, to a door covered with old notices.

On the door is a sign: RADIO CLUB — ROOM 3C.

Nhien pushed the door. The smell of dust, damp wood and old electrical wires mixed together. A microphone lies face down on the table, next to a voice recorder with a cracked screen. The opposite wall is covered with photos from many years ago: students holding headphones, sitting in front of consoles, beaming as if they owned a radio station. In the last corner, a square speaker covered with a white towel was silent.

“Who are you looking for?”

The voice came from behind the bookshelf. A short-haired girl poked her head out, holding three rolls of cable. She wore a uniform but wore yellow sneakers with two shoelaces tied askew.

"I'm a new student. Ha An Nhien. The homeroom teacher told me to come meet the club."

“What club?” The girl looked around, pretending to be surprised. “Here there is only dust and a lizard named Chairman.”

"Chairperson?"

"It takes on its own position. Every morning it lies on the tuner." The girl put down the rope and held out her hand. "Quynh Lam. MC, editor, the only person who still remembers the room password. If you plan to join, let me know in advance so I can say goodbye to the youth."

Nhien burst out laughing. Lam immediately took that as a sign of success.

"See, if you can laugh, you have radio potential. Listeners can't see your face, so your laughter is very important."

“Is the club really still active?”

Lam bent down and lifted the towel. The speaker underneath revealed a lightning bolt-shaped crack.

"Mental activity. Last Friday, it made a buzzing sound for exactly four seconds and then passed out. Since then, the school board has given us two weeks to prove that the radio is not a box of wires."

Nhien walked closer to the control desk. She's not familiar with musical instruments, but having grown up in Ha Audio's studios, she noticed a few things: the gain knob was turned too high, the XLR cable was plugged into the wrong port, the memory card reader was loose. She reached out to touch the equalizer.

"Do not!" Lam exclaimed. “It can get angry.”

“It's just plugged in wrong.”

“Those two things are related.”

Nhien unplugged the cord, wiped the dust on the jack end with a paper towel and then plugged it back in. The indicator light on the equalizer flashes once. The speaker wheezed, emitting a long hissing sound that startled both of them. From the corner of the wall, the Chairman lizard ran past Nhien's feet, disappearing behind the cardboard box.

Lam put his hand on his chest. "See? He objects to being interfered with."

“But at least it spoke up.”

“That sounds like a membership recruitment slogan.”

A male student pushed the door and entered. He is tall, thin, his shirt has been washed many times but is ironed perfectly. On his shoulder was a cloth bag shaped like an old radio. He looked at Nhien, then at the equalizer.

“Who fixed it?”

“New student,” Lam replied. "Name Nhien. It seems she's not afraid of the Chairman."

The male student put down his bag and checked the cable. “Pham Quoc Duy.”

“Duy works in engineering,” Lam explains. “Also the person who often comes here before class to collect things that no one asked for.”

“I record school sounds.” Duy did not look up head. "The sound of the sliding door, the sound of shoes on the stairs, the sound of the garbage truck backing into the gate. Each place has its own rhythm."

Nhien looked at the tape recorder in his pocket. It's small, the metal body has many scratches, but the mic is carefully wrapped. “For what?”

“To remember.”

Lam pulled out a chair and sat down. "Duy talks with dots. Don't wait for the second sentence if the first sentence makes enough sense."

Duy tapped lightly on the machine's surface. "The club has a meeting at four o'clock. Miss Mai wants to hear the plan."

“What plan?” Nhien asked.

“Save the radio room.”

Lam opened the drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. On it are the words: newsletter distribution, club introduction, recess music, teacher interview. Some items are crossed out with a red pen.

“Last year we broadcast the program ‘Five Minutes a Day,’” Lam said. "But the presenter graduated, the technician transferred schools, and the script writer discovered that he preferred to sleep. Ms. Mai gave her a fourteen-day deadline. If there is no regular distribution schedule and at least one program is well received by the students, the room will become an equipment warehouse."

I don't understand why I feel uncomfortable. She had just walked in, but the quiet room already reminded her of the spotless studios at her father's company, where everything was cleaned and every sound was marked on the screen. Here, a cracked microphone is still being held back. A broken speaker still has people waiting for it to speak.

“Can I try it out?”

Lam blinked. “Didn't ask for compensation?”

“Does the club have remuneration?”

"Yes. A carton of milk on rehearsal day if we don't blow the circuit breaker."

Duy looked at Nhien for more than a second for the first time. “Audition first.”

Lam turned on the microphone. The light doesn't light up. Duy bent down, changed the power source, and lightly tapped the mic body. It made a popping sound.

“Say one word,” he said.

Nhien sat straight. In her head, the smooth advertising voices of Ha Audio staff appeared in her head, but then she put them aside.

"This is the radio room of Binh Minh School. If you're hearing a crackling sound, please don't turn it off. It might be trying to tell something."

The speaker was silent for two seconds, then came the sound of shoes running in the hallway and Lam laughing.

“Dat,” Lam declared. “There are images, there are rhythms, it's not like reading a speech.”

Duy took off his headphones and looked at the wave lines on the device. "Your voice is not raised. Good."

“Is that a compliment?”

"YES."

“You should practice speaking longer.”

“I said enough.”

“The two of you have just met and you can argue that there is chemistry,” Lam happily concluded.

At exactly four o'clock, Ms. Mai arrived with a file. She is not tall, her hair is cut short and she always carries a stopwatch. She listened to Lam's presentation, heard Duy list the equipment that needed repair, then turned to Nhien.

“Do you have experience broadcasting?”

"Not officially. I know basic tuning."

"Good. But the club doesn't need people who turn things into products. We need people who listen to students."

Nhien nodded.

Miss Mai put the clock on the table. "From tomorrow, you have one week to create three test numbers. Each number should not exceed three minutes. No advertising, no reading meaningless news, no using other people's music as background without permission. I want to hear the sound of the school, not the sound of machines pretending to be human."

Lam raised his hand. "Teacher, what if the school's voice is the sound of class 11A singing incorrectly?"

“Then I asked for permission before handing it out.”

“If they sing very confidently?

“You have to ask for permission.”

Duy took notes. Nhien looked at the yellowed distribution schedule board. The first blank box is circled in red: Friday, 17:10 — after-school news.

“After school?” she asked.

“At that time, the hallway speakers were rarely contested,” Duy replied. “People staying at the club can listen.”

When the meeting ended, Lam pulled Nhien to the door. “Tomorrow, remember to bring an idea. No need for grandeur. Just make the listener want to stay another ten seconds.”

Nhien nodded and went down the stairs. At dusk, the schoolyard has a very strange sound: the sound of a broom sweeping leaves, the sound of a bicycle rolling through a puddle, the sound of someone calling a friend from a block away. She took out her phone and was about to record it, but then stopped. Duy is standing under the phoenix canopy, the recorder is facing the soccer field.

“Aren't you coming back?” Nhien asked.

“One more minute.”

“What sound is that?”

Duy took off his headphones and gave one to her. In the headphones was the slight vibration of a basketball net, the steady bounce of a ball, and in the background, very softly, the sound of the guard's bicycle bell.

Nhien listened until the ball stopped bouncing.

“It sounds like an unfinished song.”

"I think so, too."

Duy looked up at room 3C. The window at the end of the hallway reflects the dark sky. From inside came a clicking sound, like a switch turned on by itself. Both turned around.

The square speaker covered with a white towel is lit.

A melody rang out, with only a few piano notes and a squeak mixed in at the end of the sentence. Unlike any music Nhien had ever heard in her father's studios. The melody stopped abruptly after thirty seconds, leaving a silence so deep that the sound of falling leaves could be heard clearly.

Duy ran up the stairs. Nhien followed. Room 3C's door is still locked. Lam has returned, Ms. Mai holds the key. Duy pressed his ear to the door.

“Is there someone in there?” Nhien whispered.

No one answered.

The tune played again, this time from the old speaker in the hallway. In the last three seconds, a very small voice was pulled back, sounding like a person trying to call someone's name.

Duy turned pale.

“You know this song?” Nhien asked.

He didn't answer right away. He just looked at the faint writing on the radio room sign, then said in a lower voice than usual:

“No way. That tape was lost ten years ago.”

Melody off. The speaker light also turns off.

At the end of the hallway, a red headphone cord lay on the tile floor, the plug still wet as if it had just been unplugged from a machine.

Nhien bent down but did not touch. She called Ms. Mai, recorded the location with a photo and placed a warning note around the rope. Duy stood next to him, aiming his flashlight at the ground. Under the layer of dust there was a small trail of shoes leading towards the door of the equipment room.

“Check the cameras tomorrow,” Ms. Mai said when she arrived. “No one came back on their own tonight.”

Nhien nodded. She suddenly realized she no longer wanted to win the mystery game; She wanted to understand why this room had been silent for so long.