Chapter 11 — Music Sent After School

Do not accept a free microphone

SoundSeed sent a box of new equipment to the school before the fundraiser. Large box, covered with silver tape, printed on the outside with the club's wish to "lift up young voices". The principal asked to put it in room 3C for everyone to try it out.

Duy stood in front of the box, not touching it.

“Open it,” Khang said. “Maybe inside is the future.”

“It could also be a contract.”

Lam holds scissors. “If there was a contract, I would read every line out loud for the whole hallway to hear.”

Open the lid. Inside are two microphones, a small mixing desk, headphones and new cables. Everything is many times more beautiful than the old device. A sheet of paper is placed on top, containing instructions for use and a QR leading to the SoundSeed program registration page.

Duy picked up the microphone and rotated it around the handle. “Serial?”

Khang reads the code. “Not in the invoice.”

“So I haven't received it yet.”

The principal walked in, looking satisfied. “You can use it first, the procedure will be completed later.”

“Teacher, we need to know the conditions of use,” Duy said.

"The sponsor has provided support. You should not make things difficult."

Lam held up the paper. "This QR leads to the voice consent form. Persons under eighteen years of age must have a parent signature."

The principal looked at Ms. Mai. “That's the process.”

“So the device is only used after the procedure is completed,” Ms. Mai replied.

The device case is closed. Nhien looked at the microphone through the wrapping paper and felt her heart sink. She wanted a stable system so the club wouldn't have to run in the rain, but didn't want to trade it for control.

On the afternoon of fundraising, the school yard was full of small tables. Lam sold tickets to listen to the message, Khang made keychains, and Aunt Huong brought several repaired radios to display. Duy sat in the corner, changing the cord for a 10th grade tape player.

“How much money?” the girl asked.

“Don't take it.”

“But I want to contribute.”

“So I sent an audio to the program.”

The girl handed over the recorder and recorded the sound of herself zipping her bag. Duy labels, writes name and permission to broadcast. Nhien watched him work and understood why he was against unlimited contracts: he knew each sound was associated with a specific person.

Open mic night started with an incident. Khang mistakenly plugged the light cord into the speaker socket, causing the whole yard to go dark for two seconds. Lam still spoke into the microphone: "This is the lighting effect, completely intentional."

The students laughed, no one left. A group of 10th graders sang out of tune but confidently. A friend read a poem about a stone chair. Aunt Huong told the story of fixing the radio for the old man in the alley. Nhien controls the sound, Duy records each segment.

When it came to the auction of the old microphone, a SoundSeed employee appeared. He offered to buy it at a high price, but asked the club to use new microphones throughout the entire program.

Duy refused.

“This is just support,” the other said.

“We accept support without conditions.”

“The condition is for a better sound system.”

“And put the student's voice into the company's database.”

The other person smiled wryly. “You misunderstood.”

Lam brought out the contract form. “So please change the terms.”

The other person left, but before leaving the field, he took a photo of the equipment box and Duy's face.

The fundraising night raised enough money to replace fuses, repair speakers and buy a battery-operated recorder. Not enough to buy a new mixing table. Ms. Mai called it a proud result. Khang called it "enough to not burn anymore".

After the schoolyard was cleaned, Nhien and Duy sat on the steps. The hallway lights shine down curled rope.

“Aren't you sorry for the new microphone?” she asked.

"Have."

“Finally tell the truth.”

“I regret the equipment, not the conditions.”

“If things were simpler, what would you choose?”

“A microphone does not need permission from others to speak.”

Nhien looked at the empty stage. “I used to think that if I had enough money, everything would be simple.”

"Now?"

“Having money makes people think they have the right to make decisions for others.”

Duy was silent. A moment later, he gave her the headset. In it are the sounds that have just been recorded: the sound of Lam laughing, the sound of a child zipping a school bag, the sound of a guitar string vibrating. There is no mysterious song, but it makes Nhien feel that this school has its own rhythm.

“You collected everything?”

“No. Only what is allowed.”

“So what if you haven't given permission yet?”

“I will ask.”

Nhien laughed. “What if I say no?”

“I'll put the phone away.”

A message from a hidden account appeared at 10:17 p.m.: **Duy did not accept the microphone, but An Nhien did recognize her name in the music.**

Attached is an old photo: two children standing in front of the studio in 2014. A little girl holding a yellow umbrella. A boy holding a guitar. On the back board are the Ha Audio and Moss Records logos.

Look at the photo. She recognized the umbrella. She also recognized the boy.

Duy turned. “Do you remember?”

"A little bit."

In her blurred memory, the little girl cried because the sound of the rain was too loud. The boy gave her an earphone and said: "If you're scared, listen to this song."

Nhien looked at the person sitting next to him. Duy may have forgotten that moment, or tried not to remember.

“You know we've met before?”

“I remember a little girl named Nhien.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Because I'm not sure you're that person.”

“Are you sure now?”

“Not many people have a golden umbrella.”

On the school grounds, the wind blew through the trees. Nhien didn't know whether to be happy or scared when the past suddenly had a specific face.

Her phone vibrated again. Father texted: **Tomorrow I will take you to the company's storage room. But you must promise not to open the file arbitrarily.**

Nhien showed Duy the message.

“Are you going?”

"YES."

“I'll go with you.”

“Will your dad let me?”

“I will ask.”

“What if he refuses?”

Nhien looked at the old microphone on stage. “Then we'll find another way.”

In the distance, a blue motorbike stopped outside the gate. The person in the car did not enter. Only the headlights turned on, shone through the fence and then turned off.

In Duy's pocket, the strange transmitter lighted up on its own. The new file name appears:

**04 — THE PERSON BEHIND THE DOOR.**

Nhien writes the file to the notebook, does not open it. She asked Duy if he wanted to listen with Ms. Mai the next day. Duy agrees but sets additional conditions: the original cannot leave the warehouse, everyone has the right to stop at any time.

In the morning, the club tested out the new battery-operated recorder. The sound is cleaner, but Lam says it lacks “life” sound. Duy placed the old camera next to the new one and recorded the same footsteps. One clear version, one with noise. The group chose to keep both, noting the differences.

Khang created a table of borrowed equipment and responsible person. Each item has a return period, status and usage rights. The SoundSeed microphone box is still in the corner, no one has removed the label. It seemed like an invitation too beautiful to pass up, but beauty doesn't change the terms.

Aunt Huong brought an old volume knob, saying it was an item Duy had broken and then repaired. He attached it to the mechanism and tried to rotate it. Lam discovered that the noise decreased a bit.

“An old knob saved the show,” she said.

“No rescue, only support,” Duy replied.

Nhien looked at the two people, understood technology and had a humble way of speaking.

In the afternoon, they wrote a commitment to the audio sender. The first sentence is: “I know this record will be heard.” Last sentence: “I can change my mind.” There are no small letters that are difficult to read. Miss Mai gave a brief compliment, but Lam announced that she would print it on yellow paper so no one could pretend not to see it.

Before opening file 04, Nhien texted Minh Quang. He didn't come, just sent back: "I'm here if you need to stop." Duy read and was silent for a long time.

“He is studying,” Nhien said.

"I also."

They and Ms. Mai pressed play. The file opens with the sound of footsteps, a lock, and a period of silence. At the end, the female voice said: "The person behind the door is not the only enemy. There are people standing outside and doing nothing."

No one knows who the saying is for. Ms. Mai turned off the phone after recording and did not speculate.

After opening the file, the team did not continue investigating immediately. Duy asked for five minutes to stand in the hallway. Nhien went along but kept his distance. He looked at the soccer field, where the sound of shoes and bouncing balls remained steady, as if the story on the tape had nothing to do with an ordinary afternoon.

“I hate that my father became a name on the record,” he said.

“I hate that my father became someone who didn't tell the whole truth.”

The two sat down on the steps. Nhien did not advise Duy to forgive, Duy did not tell her to protect her father. They only tell what they know, each sentence has a source.

When he returned, Lam gave a sample of the hearing minutes. Each person writes down the parts that make them uncomfortable, the parts that are allowed to be broadcast, and the parts that need to be kept private. Duy marked the girl's voice in the tape as unplayable. Naturally marked the crying as not to be copied.

Ms. Mai complimented that decision, then reminded them that the appeal of a secret is never more important than the safety of the person in the secret.

Khang checked the player and discovered it could receive commands from a memory card. He locked the card slot with a plastic cover. Lam placed a piece of paper next to it: "Don't open it when there's only one person."

At the end of the day, Duy texted Aunt Huong that he had heard part of it. She replied without explaining, just sent a photo of the repaired watch. The second hand runs correctly again.

“I hate that my father became a name on the record,” he said.

“I hate that my father became someone who didn't tell the whole truth.”