Chapter 5 — Music Sent After School

Three minute rule

The paper on the bulletin board disappeared before first period, but his question ran around the school faster than the bell rang.

“Whose child is An Nhien?”

“Did Duy steal your father's song?”

“Sometimes the two families know each other.”

“Maybe two people are in love and then people find out.”

Quynh Lam read the messages in the class group, then turned her phone face down. "The fourth news is the most absurd. If one is discovered to be in a relationship, one must write 'date', not 'song'."

Nhien put her bag on the chair. She wanted to explain, but didn't know where to start. Ms. Mai called her and Duy alone and asked not to argue in the hallway. Duy just said: "Temporarily postpone broadcast number two."

“No way,” Lam protested. “If we stay silent, everyone will continue to write the story themselves.”

“If we play it, people will think we're taking advantage of the song.”

“Then play a show without songs.”

That's when Ms. Mai established the three-minute rule: each number should be no more than three minutes, with only one topic, one sound recorded by the club and one question sent back to the listener. Do not explain the case on air. Do not mention the names of Ha Audio, Moss Records or Duy's father. The club must prove it can create content without turning every secret into entertainment.

Lam writes the rules on the board. “Today's topic: what's left after the last bell?”

Khang proposed recording the hallway sound. Duy wants to record the sound of the classroom door closing. Nhien thought about the sound of a pen dropping, then remembered her father's words on the tape: count how many hours it rains. She chose to record the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roof of the garage.

“Where does the rain come from?” Lam asked.

Nhien pointed out the window. Dark clouds are descending.

“So well prepared.”

“No, it's luck.”

“In broadcasting, luck is also a skill.”

When the rain started, the group ran into the hallway. Khang holds the recorder in a waterproof bag. Duy placed the microphone under the awning to avoid splashes. Nhien adjusted the distance so that the sound of the rain wouldn't become a wall of noise. Lam stood next to the trash can, writing the script with a pencil because the ink was blurred by water.

Rain poured down on the yard. Students run, slippers slipping, laughter bursting out from under too-large raincoats. A 10th grade girl dropped her umbrella and was pulled into the porch by three friends. Duy recorded an hour of them arguing about who had to bring the umbrella home.

“The sound is not beautiful,” Nhien said.

“Being so beautiful is often an advertisement,” Duy replied.

Back in the room, they edited the recording for an hour. Lam read: "After the last bell, the school was not quiet. Rain touched the corrugated iron roof, wet shoes dragged in the hallway, some people laughed because they forgot to bring an umbrella. If you stay after school, you will hear things that are often overlooked during the day."

Nhien inserted the sound of rain. Khang added the sound of closing the door. Duy kept quiet at the end, did not add background music.

“It feels a bit empty without music,” Lam said.

"Theme is what remains after the bell. Silence is also sound."

Lam thought, then nodded. "Okay. But if the listener turns off the radio because he's sleepy, I'll accept it."

17:10, program broadcast. No problems. No explosion. No off-beat jingles. Just rain, Lam's voice and a four-second gap at the end.

Afterwards, the club mailbox received seventeen messages. One person said he heard himself running through the hallway. Another friend sent a recording of the sound of a phoenix tree shaking. Someone asked when the next show will air.

Lam hugged Khang. “We have an audience!”

Duy smiled very lightly. Looking at the waves, found it as steady as a heartbeat.

But the joy lasted until the principal entered. He held the papers from yesterday's bulletin board.

“Who posted this?”

No one answered.

"The club cannot turn the radio into a place for personal denunciations. From now on, all content must be approved by me first."

Lam opened his mouth, but Ms. Mai stopped him. "We will follow the process. However, the content broadcast today has nothing to do with the allegations."

"I know. But listeners will relate."

Duy stood up. “If the school wants to control the questions that students submit, then it is no longer broadcasting.”

The principal looked at him. “Are you speaking as a technician or a student?”

"Both."

The atmosphere was so tense that Lam stopped laughing. Nhien put her hand on the edge of the table and realized she was shaking. She wanted to tell Duy not to confront her, but she also understood that if everyone just waited for someone else's permission, room 3C would mute again.

Ms. Mai asked the principal for a week of testing according to clear principles: the content does not violate the law, does not offend individuals, and editorial rights belong to the club. He agreed on the condition that all recordings be saved in a public folder.

After he left, Duy looked at Nhien. “You don't need to stay.”

"Why?"

“Your name is being dragged in.”

“Your name is the same.”

“I'm used to it.”

"I'm not used to it yet. But that doesn't mean I'm leaving."

Lam Huong Khang. “You two talk like you're signing a mutual contract.”

“Lam,” Ms. Mai reminded.

“Shut up.”

At the end of the day, Nhien stayed behind to edit the roster. Duy sat by the window, listening to his father's tape box through headphones. Nhien didn't ask what he heard. She wrote on the question board for the next issue: **What have you heard that others missed?**

Duy took off his headphones. “Good question.”

“Do you have another question?”

“Which sound do you want to keep?”

Nhien stopped writing. “That sentence is deeper.”

"It doesn't have to be deep. Just real."

For a moment, she wanted to ask him which sound he wanted to keep. But outside, the rain has stopped. The schoolyard reflected the gray sky, and the hallway speaker emitted a very low hum.

No one turned it on.

This time, in the crackling sound there was a rhythm of tapping three times, then twice, then three times.

Duy stood up. “Rhythm code.”

“Morse?”

"No. My father used to use it to mark tapes. Three, two, three are paragraph numbers."

Nhien looked at the equalizer. A red light flashes rhythmically. The new file name appears on the screen: **after_school_03B**.

Lam stepped forward, his voice quiet: "If it has 03A, 03B, what about 03C?"

Duy replied: "Maybe the part that was cut was not the end of the song."

Looking at the old speaker, Nhien suddenly understood what made her uneasy. The music isn't just being sent to them. It was leading them along step by step, like someone knew exactly how they would react.

In the club mailbox, a new message appeared:

**The three-minute rule is great. But you only have three days left.**

Lam looked at the text, then took the eraser and erased it from the board. “Don't let strangers decide your watch.”

“But they can know on time,” Khang said.

“So we use three days for our work, not what they want.”

On the first day, the club revised the playing schedule. The second day, they completed the equipment report. On the third day, they organized a small listening session for the remaining students. Each task has a person in charge, a time and a way to ask for permission. No one runs alone.

Nhien received the sound check. She discovered that the player's memory was one remaining Empty folder named 03E. Duy did not delete; You create a blank copy, noting the status. Khang suggested turning off the spontaneous ability, but Ms. Mai wanted to keep a log to know if it turned back on.

Lam asked what listeners wanted the next program to be about. Some people choose the sound of rain, some people choose the sound of the exam room, and one person chooses the sound of their mother calling. They didn't choose mysterious songs. That makes Nhien feel secure: the audience can still hear other stories.

At the end of the session, Duy gave Nhien a paperclip shaped like a musical note. “Found it under the speakers.”

“Is it proof?”

“No. Just a paperclip.”

"Good. A normal thing."

They put it in the toolbox, don't turn everything into a sign. That is the hardest lesson of the incident: not every sound has a code, not every silence hides sin.

Before locking the room, Nhien heard the speaker one last time. There is no file, just the very faint sound of the wire vibrating. Duy said: "Tomorrow, we will make this sound if it is allowed."

“I will ask the Chairman.”

The lizard crawled over the wall, paused as if pondering, then disappeared.

Nhien stayed a few more minutes to review the wave line. She discovered that file 03E contained no sound, only a timer code. If the transmitter is connected to the speaker at 17:10, it will look for a folder of the same name in memory. Someone installed the mechanism before the current club received the equipment.

Khang wants to disable it immediately. Duy shook his head and said to back up the code first. They captured each screen, recorded the software version, and turned off the transmitter with a physical switch. Nhien understands that a trap sometimes doesn't require anyone standing nearby; Just a forgotten appointment in the computer.

Lam put the glass of milk on the table and said he had to have breakfast tomorrow. She didn't want the club members to solve the case and then faint from hunger. Duy says it's a less dangerous risk than lost rights. Lam threw him a cake.

On the way out the gate, Nhien looked at the door of room 3C. She no longer saw it as a dusty room. It's like an old headset: you have to clean it, plug it in correctly, and wait patiently for the sound to return.

The next morning, they came before class to test the timer code. Khang created a separate test environment, not connected to field speakers. When run, the code only turns on the indicator light but does not play sound. The group breathed a sigh of relief; At least they understood the mechanism without letting it startle them again.

Ms. Mai requested that the warning be recorded in the device file. Duy put a red label next to the player, and Lam wrote a sentence in black: "Not everything that turns on automatically wants to be heard."

Nhien asked Duy if his father had ever used a timer code. He said Huy often arranges music for children to listen to after school, but does not use automatic codes. A small detail, but opens up the possibility that the sender learned the technique from an old project.

At noon, they ate bread in their room. Lam divided the shares equally, Duy gave the last piece to the Chairman and was reminded by Ms. Mai not to let the lizard eat salty food. Laughter spread before the class bell rang.