Chapter 28 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

One morning in early autumn, about two months after the party celebrating the alley being saved, Lam woke up and noticed something strange in the atmosphere of the house. Her father had woken up earlier than usual, sitting at the dining table, his face bright, his eyes unusually bright compared to other mornings since the stroke.

"Dad gets up so early," Lam said, a little surprised as he walked down the stairs, and even more surprised to hear his father respond in a complete, clear sentence, without any interruptions as usual.

"Dad slept so well. He woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep," Mr. Vinh said, his voice still a bit hoarse but surprisingly coherent.

Lam stood still in the middle of the stairs, his hand still clinging to the wooden railing, not daring to believe his ears. In the two years since the stroke, this was the first time she heard her father speak a complete, fluent sentence, without needing to write it down for support. She quickly sat down next to him, held his hand, her voice trembling with emotion and worry. "Dad, it's okay! Are you tired? Do you need me to call the doctor?"

Mr. Vinh smiled, a full smile, no longer distorted on one side as usual, his eyes were unusually bright. "Dad's okay. The doctor once said that sometimes good days like that can still happen, even though they're rare. Maybe today is one of those days."

Lam immediately called the familiar doctor who was monitoring his father's condition, recounted the phenomenon, and was explained that this is a phenomenon that sometimes occurs in patients after strokes - rare "good days" when the brain, for reasons not completely explained by medicine, temporarily recovers language ability much better than usual, although it is not a sign of a long-term recovery. The doctor advised the family to take advantage of these precious moments, because no one knows for sure when it will happen again.

Lam decided to put aside all work for the day and spend all her time with her father. She hung a "temporarily closed" sign in front of the shop, something she rarely did before except on really special occasions, then turned around and brewed a pot of fragrant lotus tea that her father still loved, setting it on a small table next to the window, where the morning sunlight shone warmest.

The two sat in the workshop, the gentle early autumn sunlight shining through the familiar window, and for the first time in a long time, Lam heard his father tell stories in his own voice, not through hastily written words on a notebook. She closed her eyes for a moment, just to listen to the sound of that voice, trying to memorize every tone, every punctuation, afraid that this might be the last time she would hear her father speak so fluently.

"I want to tell you more about grandpa," he said, his voice deep and full of nostalgia. "There are things that Dad has never told me before, because he didn't have the strength to write them all before, and he was also afraid that you would think he was a coward if he knew everything."

"I don't think you're a coward, dad," Lam said, squeezing his father's hand. "I think he is just a normal person, with a great love and a great fear, just like everyone else."

Mr. Vinh nodded, his eyes shining with deep emotion. "He once told his father, when he was young, that bookbinding teaches people an important thing: no book is perfect from the beginning. The spine of the book will wear out, the paper will stain, the thread will break. But as long as someone is patient enough, loving enough, that book can still be saved, given another life. He said, people are the same. No one is perfect from the beginning, everyone has tears, lost pages. But there only needs to be someone patient enough. Patience, enough love, can still be healed."

Lam listened, tears rolling down her cheeks, feeling the full profound meaning of her grandfather's words, now transmitted through her father's voice, like a string connecting three generations that had never been broken, even though at times it seemed to have been buried in silence.

"I'm so proud of you, Lam," Mr. Vinh said, his voice choked with emotion, his eyes filled with tears but still not leaving his daughter's face. "I did what dad, and grandpa, never had the courage to do. I didn't choose to stay silent."

"I learned that from dad," Lam replied, bowing his head and leaning on his father's shoulder, as if returning to being a small child under his father's protection, forgetting all the worries of adulthood in this rare moment of peace. "Dad taught me to be patient, to be meticulous, to respect old things. Those were the things that helped me recognize the unusual thing in the book that day."

Father and son sat together all morning, Mr. Vinh told every little story about his childhood, about memories with his grandfather that before, because of the language barrier, he had never had the opportunity to tell them completely. He told about the first time his grandfather taught him how to sew book spines, about the evenings when father and son sat by the coal stove repairing old books for customers, about the silent sadness he still saw flashing across his father's face every time his grandfather accidentally glanced at a book with a moss-green cover.

"Now I fully understand the meaning of that sadness," Mr. Vinh said, his voice low. "When I was little, I thought he was simply a quiet person. Now I know that he has carried such great pain all his life, but has never dared to fully share it with anyone, including his own son."

At noon, when Duy Khoi stopped by as usual, he couldn't help but be surprised to see that Mr. Vinh could converse fluently, asking him about the progress of the work on compiling the new edition with clear, coherent questions. He sat down, listening to the family's story with deep respect, understanding that he was witnessing a rare, precious moment.

"Uncle," Duy Khoi said, his voice sincere, "I want to tell you something, while you can talk freely like this. I respect you very much, and respect my grandfather, for the courage the two of you have shown throughout the past journey. Not everyone is brave enough to face such a heavy secret, even if just deciding to tell it to their children and grandchildren."

Mr. Vinh smiled, reached out and patted Duy Khoi's shoulder, an intimate gesture that he had rarely shown to people outside the family before. "Thank you. I also want to say, I'm very happy that Lam met you. You are a good person, understanding, and most importantly, you truly love my daughter."

Lam blushed at her father's frank comment, but her heart was filled with a warm happiness when she heard her father openly express his approval for their relationship, something that before, because of the language barrier, he had never had the opportunity to fully express.

In the afternoon, Mr. Vinh also told another story that Lam had never heard before — about the first time he saw his father cry, one heavy rainy night when he was a teenager, when he overheard soft sobs coming from his grandfather's office. "At that time, Dad was still young, didn't understand anything, just stood outside the door looking in, saw him sitting alone at the table, holding a silver hairpin, tears falling onto the page in front of him. Dad didn't dare to ask, just quietly returned to bed, but that image haunted him for many years later, even though he didn't understand why."

"Now I understand," Lam said softly, holding his father's hand tightly. "That must have been the night he wrote the first lines in his diary."

Mr. Vinh nodded, his eyes filled with tears. "Dad thinks so. Looking back now, I wish I had been brave enough to step in, ask him a question, give him a hug. But I didn't, and now it's too late to do that with him. I can only do it with you, right now."

He reached out to hug Lam, a tight, warm hug, containing everything he had never been able to say for many years. Lam hugged his father back, tears rolling down, fully feeling the love that sometimes language, whether fluent or broken, is not enough to express.

In the afternoon, when the sunlight began to subside, Mr. Vinh's voice gradually returned to its usual broken state, but this time, no one in the family felt sad or regretful. Instead, they cherish every precious moment they have, knowing that even though language may become difficult, the things that were said and shared today will forever remain in each person's heart, like a gift that nothing can take away.