Chapter 11 — Music Without Chorus

The teaser was shared faster than any explanation. Listeners recognized Le Chi's voice, but the name on the screen was Gia Linh. Some people praised the new arrangement, others asked why a deceased singer appeared in a song that had never been released. Milky Way turns off comments after one hour.

I didn't read it all. She sat in the ENT clinic, her hands on her knees, looking at the order number board. The sounds here always have an annoying layer of echo: the sound of names being called from the speakers, the sound of shoes walking on the floor, the sound of children crying behind the door. Her left ear was ringing since last night, each voice was pulled into a thin thread.

Doctor Phuc looked at the audiometry results and asked if she had gotten enough sleep. An said he didn't remember. He put down his pen.

"Insomnia doesn't immediately damage your ears, but it makes your brain process sound worse. You're forcing yourself to listen by all means."

“I need to work.”

“You need to listen to your body before listening to the mix.”

I hate that sentence because it's true. After the accident, many people said she should quit her job. She didn't quit. Every time the device malfunctions, she proves that she can still do it. But continuous proof is also another way to make yourself the project.

“I can work with vibrations,” she said.

“Maybe. But don't use it to replace everything your ears are telling you.”

He gave her a week off, avoided loud noises, and retested in seven days. An received the paper and folded it into his pocket. In the hallway, Nam called. She didn't pick up the phone. He called a second time, then sent a text message: "I'm in the lobby. Don't come in if you don't want to."

An went down the stairs. Nam stood next to the water vending machine, not carrying documents. When he saw her, he didn't ask for the results.

“The doctor told you to rest?”

“Are you eavesdropping?”

“You hold the examination paper.”

“I can read my paper.”

"I know."

An wanted to go over, but Nam gave him a cloth bag. “Vy asked me to give it.”

In the bag is a new vibration pad, custom-made to the size of An's hand. Vy wrote on a piece of paper: "Don't make Nam the only carrier. I'm in Mach Nuoc."

An holds the pad. It's lighter than the old one, the rubber part is soft, and can be placed on the wrist. “Did you do it yourself?”

“I help order parts.”

“Do you know about components?”

“I know how to find people.”

“Do you know how to find Le Chi?”

Nam stopped. "Mrs. Diep sent me the address. I haven't left yet."

"Why?"

“Because I'm afraid I went there just to ease my mind.”

An looked at the flow of people passing through the lobby. She understood that fear better than she wanted to admit. There are meetings that are not meant to fix the past, just to force people to face the part they once left behind.

“I left after getting her consent,” An said. “No cameras, no recordings to convince.”

"I know."

“Don't say that if you haven't done it.”

Nam nodded.

At Mach Nuoc, Vy put colored tape on the floor to mark the quiet zone. She turned off the speakers and converted conversations to text. When An entered, people did not greet him in a loud voice. That kind of care made An both grateful and uncomfortable, as if the whole room was reminding her that she could break down at any moment.

“I'm not fragile,” An said.

"I know. Fragile things usually have labels. You don't."

Vy pushed the tablet. The company's teaser was removed, but copies spread everywhere. An anonymous account posted the sentence: "Mai An is taking over Khai Nam's efforts." Comments below called her ungrateful, saying she took advantage of her disability to get attention.

Men read, face stiffens. “I will request removal.”

“No,” An said. “Don't respond when you're angry.”

“They used your name.”

“They wanted me to react so the story would move away from Le Chi's voice.”

Hanh called and confirmed that the anonymous account was related to a media company in the Milky Way. She advises people to keep evidence and not sue right away. "Let them create more clues. We don't need to win an online argument, we need a strong enough record."

An agreed, but Linh did not. She went to the studio in the afternoon, took off her makeup, and put her phone on the table.

“I want to talk,” Linh said.

“Say it.”

"I saw the teaser. I know that voice is not mine. But my name is on it. I want to post a correction."

Nam asked: "The company can sue me."

"If you stay quiet, they will still use you. You want to choose your own risks."

An looked at Linh. She remembers saying that people must be responsible for what they know. Linh is doing that, although she may not have enough strength.

“Write short facts,” An said. "Didn't call anyone a thief. Didn't confirm the unverified part. Said I only recorded the main vocals, discovered another layer of vocals later, and asked the company to pause."

Linh types articles on her phone. Nam did not correct any sentences. When she posted, the number of views increased very quickly. A company account responded that Linh "misunderstood the post-production process". Hanh took a photo before they deleted it.

An felt a strong ringing in his left ear. The continuous notification sound turned into a series of white flashes. She stood up and entered the soundproof room. Nam followed but stood outside the door.

“I'm here,” he said through the glass.

An placed his hands on the table and turned on the vibration transmitter at a low level. The bass beat from the demo runs through the wrist. She breathed slowly, trying to distinguish the machine's vibrations from the vibrations in her body. After a few minutes, the buzzing sound decreased.

Nam gave her a piece of paper: "I won't go in."

An wrote back: "Don't make me the reason you have to be better."

He read, then wrote: “I am better because I am responsible, not because of you.”

An doesn't know whether to believe it or not. But for the first time, he didn't say something pleasant.

In the evening, Hanh sent the results of the teaser analysis. Le Chi's voice layer is not taken from tape number 07 but from an edited version in the southern warehouse. Metadata records the publisher as Tran Duc Minh. Quang Vu has no name.

“Quang may be pushing Duc Minh first,” Tung said in the group call. “Or Duc Minh did it himself to force Quang to pay.”

An opens the map. The southern warehouse is located near a river wharf, more than thirty kilometers from the city. “We need the original before they delete it.”

“I know the driver who used to transport equipment there,” Nam said.

“Don't go looking alone.”

“I will ask through a lawyer.”

An nodded, but the buzzing increased again. She turned off the screen and looked at the vibrating pad on her wrist. It works fine. Her body did not object to the music; it resists being forced to do things right away.

Before leaving the room, An received an email from Le Chi's address. There is only one sentence: "I don't need Mr. Nam to return the past. I need to know what you will do with the silent part."

An read many times. Below are phone numbers and calling hours. She kept it and did not pass it on to Nam.

Rested at home for exactly two days, but her "rest" was just not going into the studio. She reads files, responds to text messages and walks around the neighborhood so her left ear doesn't have to constantly process sound. Mrs. Hoa did not ask how much she had done, she just asked The rice was on the table and the TV was turned off when An walked in.

“Mom, you don't need to make the living room as quiet as a hospital,” An said.

“I'm making a place for you to hear your choice.”

An smiled. Mrs. Hoa took out an old wooden box from the cupboard, which contained music books. One page notes how to use a tabletop to feel the beat when students don't have an instrument.

“Your grandmother taught me this,” she said. "Music doesn't start with the ears. It starts with knowing something is moving."

An touches the page. After the accident, she thought she had to become a copy of a normal listener. Now, her mother's words gave her another way: she was not missing a door; she has another door.

While An was at home, Vy checked all the Mach Nuoc equipment. She discovered that a receiver had been replaced with the wrong part, which could create access to the computer. I don't know who replaced it, but the camera recorded the company's equipment delivery staff visiting the room two weeks ago.

An called Hanh. Hanh asked to make a record and not confront the employee himself. “Every little thing is important if it proves the system has many doors.”

Nam sent a report about the old account and the withdrawal of hospital fees. He did not ask An to read it first. She received a copy after Hanh submitted it and saw that he wrote to himself that he did not answer Lam's calls all day.

“He's doing all the talking,” Vy said.

“Talking it all down doesn't do it all right.”

“But help others know where they stand.”

An does not argue. She called Linh and asked about the situation. Linh said her post was still shared, but many independent singers sent invitations to sing. “I don't know who to accept,” she said.

"Don't accept it to prove you haven't been harmed by the label. Accept it because the song is suitable."

“You always talk like someone who has been through it.”

“I've been through enough to know not to make decisions when I'm angry.”

Linh asked An if she was afraid of losing her hearing. An answered yes, but fear didn't make her stop completely; it made her set limits. Linh said she would learn to set limits with contracts.

On the third day, An returned to Mach Nuoc. The left ear was still ringing, but the doctor allowed her to have two short sessions. The group recorded a new piece for Linh, using only the piano and the sound of Ms. Hoa's pen tapping on the cutting board. An wants to keep the sound of her mother's life, but asks first. Ms. Hoa agreed, on the condition that her name not be used for promotion.

“I don't want to be a character.”

“I know.”

“Do you really know?”

An looked at her. “I'm studying.”

The autumn session was light. Linh sings low, without pressing notes. Nam plays the piano but lets An decide how long to rest. When she announced stop, everyone stopped immediately.

After the session, Nam left a piece of paper on the table: "I don't know what to do when you're in pain and don't want me to ask."

An wrote back: "Ask once. If I don't answer, stay close but don't touch."

Nam read and nodded.

At the end of the day, Hanh sent news that Milky Way had asked the court to force An to hand over the storage device because she believed she kept the company's assets. Hanh responded with the device purchase invoice, serial number and maintenance schedule. The receiver that was replaced was a loaner device from the company, but there is no evidence of anyone accessing it.

An does not panic. She backed up all the logs and sealed them on the computer. Every time someone asked, she was able to provide the correct documents.

That night, Le Chi sent another message: "Don't just protect yourself. Protect other people's ability to speak without becoming symbols."

An placed the phone down, look at the piano. Nam is recording the sound of the keys not being turned on. He didn't know she was looking, just focused on the sound of wood.

“What are you collecting?”

“Sounds of preparation.”

“Does it have a name?”

"Not yet."

An placed his hands on the table. “Leave it blank.”

Nam nodded. For the first time, she saw a void in her work that no one was in a hurry to fill.