Chapter 2 — Music Sent After School

Jingle is out of rhythm

The next morning, Quynh Lam wrote three big words on the board: DO NOT PANIC.

Below, she added a smaller line: Except when the microphone explodes.

“You're here early,” Lam said as Nhien pushed open the door to room 3C. “This is the sign of someone who is serious, or someone who is lost for the fourth time.”

“I follow the sound of the loudspeaker.”

“So you heard it last night too?”

Nhien nodded. Duy sent a message in the club group from six o'clock in the morning: **Do not play back the music without checking the source.** The message was just that, no explanation. Lam sent six exclamation points, two crying faces and a photo of the President lying on the dashboard.

Duy appeared a few minutes later, holding a tool bag. He didn't say hello, put one end of the screwdriver on the table and went straight to the speaker. Nhien realized he had not slept: there were dark circles under his eyes, and the hair on the left side stood up as if he had been electrocuted.

“Have you checked the door?” she asked.

"Miss Mai kept the key. There were no pry marks."

“So how does the song play?”

“Looking.”

Lam pulled the chair next to Nhien. "We have two cases: one, the ghost song. Two, the jingle gave us a test number. The second case is more urgent because if we don't do it, Ms. Mai will let us play breathing sounds for three minutes."

Duy removed the speaker cover. Inside there is an old receiver module, the power cord connected to the wall socket. He used an electric meter and wrote a few numbers on the back of his hand.

“No memory card.”

“Maybe someone uses bluetooth,” Nhien said.

“This generation speaker does not have bluetooth.”

“Then add it.”

Duy looked at her as if she had just suggested putting an airplane engine on a bicycle. “No budget.”

“If I could borrow the transmitter?”

“Also need resources.”

“If—”

“Of course.” Duy interrupted, but his voice was not unpleasant. “Don't solve everything by buying more stuff.”

She stopped. The saying sounds strangely familiar. At home, her father often told the technical team not to fix the software by buying new servers, but he himself ordered three spare machines for each studio. Nhien doesn't know if she's used to thinking of the fastest way or if she's just trying to prove that she's useful.

Lam clapped his hands. "Good, conflict is brewing. Let's record it, so we can make a podcast later."

The first tryout started with a disaster. Lam wrote a four-line jingle, Khang — the person in charge of the equipment — chose the electronic drum beat too fast, and Duy tried to record it all with a recorder with only one button. Nhien sat in front of the control desk, listening to them argue about speed.

“Broadcasting after school must be like a step,” Duy said.

“Whose footsteps?” Lam asked. “The pedestrian or the one running away from the supervisor?”

“Moderately slow.”

“How many beats is medium slow?”

“Not so fast.”

Khang pressed the wrong key and the electronic drum sounded like a siren. Lam remained professional, speaking into the microphone: “You are listening to Dawn After Hours, where we together—”

The microphone made a beeping sound and turned off completely.

“—let's fix what just exploded,” Lam finished.

Naturally check the wire. The problem is not in the source but in the port. She took blue tape and marked each wire according to function, then wrote the diagram on the cardboard. Khang looked for a moment, surprised.

“Where did you study engineering?”

“No formal education.”

“Why do you look like someone who scolded a machine because it didn't listen?”

“Because I used to scold you a lot.”

The second recording was better. Lam introduced the program, Duy put the sound of the school yard in the background, and Nhien created a scene The transition is made with the sound of a pen tapping on the table. When they heard it again, everyone was silent. Not because it was excellent, but because for the first time room 3C felt alive.

Ms. Mai walked in just as the last part sounded. She listened, but didn't immediately praise.

“What do you want listeners to remember?”

Lam replied: "That there are still people here after school."

“And the sound?”

Duy said: "Sound to prove."

“Prove what?”

“That this school is more than just drums and bells going into class.”

Ms. Mai nodded, but only gave it seven points out of ten. "The first part is long. Jingle doesn't have an identifying point yet. And Lam, you laughed when Khang said the wrong name of the program."

“A genuine smile.”

"Listeners need to be honest, they don't need to hear you mocking you."

Lam bowed his head and took notes. Nhien looked at her. For the first time, she realized Lam's humor wasn't just for laughs; it's this girl's way of hiding the fact that she's afraid the program will fail.

After noon, Duy took Nhien down to the equipment room. He opened a safe and took out a box of cassette tapes wrapped in a nylon bag.

“Last night, there was a pullback sound at the end,” Duy said. “I want to try filtering it.”

“You think that's your father's song?”

Duy nodded. "My father used to work as a technician for a recording studio. He passed away when I was young. Aunt Huong only kept a few rolls of tape. One roll was lost after the company's old warehouse changed hands."

“Which company?”

Duy did not answer. He put the tape in the player and pressed play. The hiss thickens, followed by an incomplete melody. The sound is poor, lots of background noise, but the melody line is exactly the same as last night's.

Nhien heard the sound of an acoustic guitar, someone coughing, then a man's voice said: "Don't sell this part. It belongs to the boy."

The tape stops.

“Who is the boy?”

"I."

The air in the equipment room was tight. Nhien was about to ask more when Duy turned off the phone.

"Last night the song was played from room 3C. I don't know who made it, nor do I know why it used my father's lyrics. But until we find out, it can't be played to the whole school."

"I agree."

“Really?”

“Yes. But we have to find the source.”

Duy looked at her, as if considering whether to tell the truth. “I'll go back to the room this afternoon after everyone leaves.”

“I'll go with you.”

"No need."

“If the song plays again, you won't be able to do anything alone.”

“I can do it.”

“You say enough, but that doesn't mean it's always right.”

Lam stood outside the door and heard the last sentence. "Great. You two just formed an investigation team without a vote."

The trial distribution at 5:10 p.m. took place in front of the whole school. Lam sat in front of the microphone, Khang held a mini fan to dissipate heat for the machine, Duy looked at the wave line, and Nhien counted down with her fingers.

“Three, two, one.”

Lam begins: “You are listening to Dawn After Hours, the show—”

The school bell rang outside in the yard, lasting longer than usual because a certain class still held the button. Lam is not interrupted. She switched to the story of a security guard who knew how to fix a student's guitar. Duy put the sound of strings into the background. Nhien lowered the volume just as Lam's voice reached the high end.

When it was over, the hallway speakers let out a lonely clap. Maybe someone knocked on the window, but Lam still held Khang's hand and shouted softly.

“We are alive!”

Ms. Mai texted in the group: **First test number passed. Don't be subjective.**

After everyone left, Duy locked the room door. Nhien stood next to him, holding a flashlight. Two people checked the sockets, receivers, and cabinets ice. There was nothing unusual except a layer of dust smeared across the top of the speaker.

“Someone touched it,” Nhien said.

“Or President.”

“Lizards don't leave shoe prints.”

“I've never seen lizard shoe prints.”

Nhien burst out laughing. Duy looked at her, his lips curled up very slightly. That moment was so short that she thought she was wrong.

At exactly 18:02, the equalizer turned itself on. No one touches it.

A piece of music played, this time longer. There is a piano, a guitar, and the sound of rain falling on the corrugated iron roof. At the end of the paragraph, the man's voice said more clearly: "If you hear it, don't give it to them."

Duy rushed forward and unplugged the source. Nhien used her phone to record the flashing signal line. Duy knelt down and removed the lid of the machine, looking for a small transmitter hidden behind the dust shield. It is not an original part. On the back there is a half-peeled silver stamp.

The remaining part reads two words: **HUA AUDIO**.

Duy held the stamp, his face changed.

“Your father's company?”

Nhien didn't know how to answer. She looked at the brand name, then looked at the old tape recorder in Duy's hand.

In the hallway, the sensor lights turn off one by one. Before the room went dark, the recorder's cracked screen lit up a timeline:

**00:03 — SEND TO AN NHIEN.**

Nhien took a screenshot before Duy removed the battery. He didn't ask why she was so fast. The two of them began to understand that in this room, a lost moment could become irretrievable evidence.

Lam squatted next to the wire cabinet and took out an old notebook. The first pages record the delivery schedules of many previous courses. There was a line written in purple ink: “If the speaker turns on by itself, check the clock first.” Below that line is a drawing of three dots, two dots, three dots.

“Your father once left this symbol?” Nhien asked.

Duy turned the page. "Don't know. But the handwriting is not that of the current club."

Lam looked at the wall clock. The second hand stopped at twelve, then continued. “Maybe the watch is also involved in the case.”

Khang used his phone to film the entire room before everyone left. Ms. Mai asked them to seal the player in a plastic box, clearly stating who held it and the time. Nhien wrote the minutes, Duy signed below, Lam signed with a picture of a small speaker.

When going down the stairs, Duy asked: "Are you scared?"

"Have."

“Still staying?”

"Have."

"Why?"

Nhien looked at the glass window reflecting the two people. “Because I hate being called by someone else's name.”

Duy did not speak. But before separating at the gate, he gave her a piece of paper with Aunt Huong's phone number.

"If there is a strange file, send it to me and aunt. Don't open it alone."

Nhien put away the paper. “You too.”

That night, she did not open file 03B anymore. She only heard the sound of rain outside the window, counting each drop without a number. Perhaps her father had intended for her to listen to a song to remember, but she would choose her own way of remembering.

Before going to sleep, Nhien wrote in her notebook: "A room can contain more voices than the number of people standing in it." She placed the notebook next to the photo of the yellow umbrella, then turned off the light. Outside the door, the rain was still falling. This time, she didn't try to count.