Chapter 24 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

The old maid - still called Auntie Sau by relatives and grandchildren - tremblingly opened the old envelope in front of the entire hall. Inside are a few handwritten pages, with strong, vertical handwriting, exactly as Duy Khoi once described Ung Boi Chau's real handwriting. She gave it to the host and asked to read it out loud for everyone to hear, because her eyesight was bad and she could no longer read small letters.

The entire hall was silent, hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on the stage, with no sound other than the steady sound of the ceiling fan spinning overhead and the click of cameras from a few reporters trying not to miss this historic moment. Lam held Duy Khoi's hand tightly, clearly feeling both of their hearts beating in the same nervous rhythm, waiting for the final words that could close the entire long journey they had gone through together.

The host, after a moment of hesitation, looked towards Ung The Khang for advice. He nodded, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Read it. I want to hear it."

The host held the pages, his voice trembling slightly as he began to read.

"If you can read these lines, it means I'm no more, and it means I've finally found the courage to tell the truth, even if it's just through the page, even though it's too late to fix anything.

The poem collection Smoke Suong Lac Ben was not entirely written by my father. Most of the best poems in there are by a girl I once knew, named Thuc Hien, from a merchant family in Tra Lang. She has much greater talent than her father, but circumstances do not allow her to be herself. Dad was young at the time, admired her, and also sympathized with her situation, so when she asked him to help her post her poems under another name to avoid her family finding out, he agreed.

But then things went too far. The publisher, knowing that those poems had great potential, persuaded Dad to officially name them, saying that an unknown female author would be less likely to be accepted by the public than a slightly famous male author like Dad. Dad agreed, telling himself this was only a temporary solution, that he would find a way to fix it later, and convince her to allow the truth to be published when the time was right.

But that right time never came. She was forced into marriage by her family and left Tra Lang before her father could meet her again to discuss. After the famous poetry collection, dad became a respected name, and with each passing day, confessing the truth became more difficult, more painful, possibly destroying everything he had built.

I was a coward, my child. Dad knows that. Dad tried writing to her once, many years later, through a mutual acquaintance, but never received a reply. Dad didn't know if she was alive or dead, didn't know if she had any descendants, didn't know who to find to apologize.

I write these lines, sending them back to you, not to ask for your forgiveness, but to hope that, if one day this truth is discovered — and I believe that the truth, no matter how deeply buried, will eventually find its way to the light — you will not try to hide it any longer. Let Thuc Hien's true name be returned to her, even at the cost of her family's reputation. That's the only thing I can do to atone for some of my life's mistakes."

The host's voice gradually quieted down in the last sentence, the whole hall was plunged into a heavy silence, only a soft whimper rang out somewhere in the crowd. Lam looked at Nha Ky and saw her crying, tears rolling down uncontrollably. She looked at her father and saw that he was also wiping his tears with trembling hands.

Lam stood still, letting Ung Boi Chau's last words sink into his heart. She realized that letter completely confirmed everything she and Duy Khoi had speculated about, pieced together from fragmentary pieces of evidence over the past many months - but it also revealed something that she had never dared to hope for: that the man who had been honored by an entire literature for sixty years, at the end of his life, was also tormented, also wanted to correct his mistakes, but he just did not have the courage to do it while he was alive, just like her grandfather.

Two men, one a poet admired by the whole society, the other an anonymous bookbinder in a small alley, turned out to have the same fear, an identical cowardice before the weight of the truth. It's just that this person kept silent to protect their reputation, and the other person kept silent to protect a promise to the person they love. Both of them had to pay the price of their lives for that silence.

Ung The Khang stood silently on stage for a long time, his face going through many emotions - shock, pain, then a difficult acceptance. He walked over, took the pages from the host's hand, and read them again himself, his hands visibly shaking.

"I..." he said, his voice choked, "I'm sorry. On behalf of my family, I apologize to Ms. Thuc Hien, sorry to Ms. Nha Ky's family, sorry to Ms. Lam's family. My grandfather was wrong, and I, during the past time, tried to hide that wrong by even worse methods — threatening, bribing, even taking advantage of an entire community to put pressure on. I apologize to everyone, and I promise to do everything I can to fix what's happened." I caused it."

His aunt, standing nearby, could no longer maintain her initial anger, but burst into tears, sitting down on the chair, covering her face with her hands, her whole body shaking with each sob. "Dad," she whispered through tears, "why did you hide this from me, until now I know how much you suffered..."

The hall was filled with a strange atmosphere of both heaviness and relief — heavy because of the weight of the truth that had just been revealed, relieved that finally, after sixty years, the burden of a giant lie had been laid down, no longer having to carry it another day.

The old professor on stage, who had just praised Ung Boi Chau's talent a few minutes ago, stepped forward, placed his hand on Ung The Khang's shoulder, his voice was low but full of sympathy of someone who had spent his whole life studying literature, understanding better than anyone the complexity of the human soul. “This is not the end of your grandfather's legacy,” he said, loud enough for nearby pews to hear. "This is the day that legacy is completed, told more fully, with all the truth, both its beautiful parts and its false parts. A poet who dares to leave this confession before he dies, even though it's late, still deserves to be recognized for that courage at the end of his life."

The professor's words, although they could not completely erase the pain of the truth that had just been revealed, partly eased the tense atmosphere that was covering the hall, opening up a more humane perspective for what was about to be faced next — not a judgment, but a process of healing, acknowledgment, and repair.

Duy Khoi walked up to Lam, took her hand, and they both looked towards the stage, where Ung The Khang was standing and bowing his head before the entire hall, before the photo of his grandfather, and perhaps, before the soul of a woman whose family had never had a chance to meet to apologize in person.

"I did it," Duy Khoi whispered in Lam's ear, his voice still shaking with emotion. "The truth is finally being told."

Lam nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks, but this time they were tears of deep relief, a feeling she had never experienced in her twenty-seven years of careful, closed life. She turned to look at her father, seeing him smiling through his tears, a smile that she understood, not only for himself, but also for his deceased father, who had finally been freed from the heavy promise he had carried with him all his life.

Nha Ky stepped forward, hugged Lam, both women cried in each other's arms, there was no need to say another word, because they both understood, this moment was what they had been working towards together for many months - not revenge, not gloating over the other person's defeat, but simply belated justice for a woman who had been forgotten for too long.