Chapter 13 — Potters and the Last Fire Season

Minh admitted his fault for the broken batch of yeast in the past. At that time, he arbitrarily turned up the heat to save a large order. Mr. Phuc hid the reason because he was afraid he would be kicked out, and Minh thought he was incompetent so he left the village.

The conversation took place on a quiet evening, when the whole workshop was deserted, leaving only Linh and Minh sitting back to check the parameters for the next firing batch. Minh suddenly stopped writing, looked toward the stove, his voice unusually low.

“There's a story I've never told anyone,” he said. “Even with your father.”

Linh looked up, realizing the seriousness in his voice. “What's going on?”

“The order was three hundred sets of bowls that year,” Minh began, his eyes looking far away as if returning to ten years ago. "I knew the soil mixture was not correct according to the supplier's report. I had my doubts before firing, but time was pressing, so I decided to arbitrarily increase the firing temperature, hoping to compensate for the soil's deviation."

“Didn't you tell my father?”

“There is a report,” Minh replied, his voice carrying an old torment. "But you were busy dealing with other matters. You just told me to make my own decisions. You trusted me. I misinterpreted that trust as pressure to fix everything myself without asking anyone else."

They revised the entire process: the operator had the right to stop the furnace, every temperature change had to be recorded with time and reason, and no batch was more important than worker safety. Mr. Phuc read the protocol in front of everyone, then accepted his responsibility.

Linh asked why he was talking about it now. Minh replied that he didn't want another person to leave because of a mistake no one would name.

"Last week, when Vy broke the mold and tried to leave," he said, "I saw myself ten years ago in that look. If someone had told me at that time, it wasn't entirely my fault, maybe I wouldn't have left the village."

Linh was silent for a moment, considering what he said. “So what do you think we should do now?”

“I think we need a clear process,” Minh replied, taking out a blank piece of paper and starting to sketch. “Not to blame anyone, but so that no one has to bear the same important decisions that I had to make alone.”

They spent the entire evening drafting the new procedure, each clause was written down after careful debate between the two. The furnace operator, whoever they are, has the right to stop the firing process if they feel it is unsafe, without needing to wait for prior permission. Any change in temperature must be recorded immediately, with a specific reason, so that if there is a mistake, the next person can learn from it instead of repeating it.

The next morning, when the whole factory gathered to start the working day, Mr. Phuc stood in front of everyone, holding the newly printed procedure. He read each clause, his voice slower and more formal than usual.

"Before I finish reading," he said, pausing mid-sentence, "I want to say one thing. Ten years ago, a large batch of goods was damaged. The fault was not only with the furnace operator at that time. The fault was also mine, because I gave too much responsibility to a young person and was not there to support when needed."

The whole yard was silent. A few older workers, who still remembered the old story, exchanged surprised looks. Minh stood in the corner of the yard, bowing his head. He did not expect Mr. Phuc to openly accept responsibility in front of everyone like that.

“From now on,” Mr. Phuc continued, “no batch of goods, no matter how large, is allowed to be more important than the truth safety of the person operating it. This is the new factory rule, which applies to everyone, including me.”

Linh did not say forgiveness. She just placed the old and new versions side by side, marking the places that had been left blank.

She brought two copies of the process—the old one, just a few sketchy notes from years ago, and the new one, detailed and clear—put them side by side on the table so everyone could see the difference. She did not say any judgment, just let the gaps in the old version speak for themselves of everything that had been missing.

In the afternoon, Minh showed her a sample of unfired enamel. The gray-green color is not brilliant, but changes color according to the light. Linh wants to keep it because it resembles the surface of a river after the rain.

He brought the enamel cup to the table outside in the yard, where the afternoon sunlight slanted through the eaves. Linh picked up the cup and tilted it under the light, seeing the color change subtly from gray to light blue depending on the viewing angle, an effect she had never seen in any glaze before.

“What name?” Minh asked.

“Don't give names too quickly. After heating, let's see what it wants to be called."

Minh smiled. This time, they did not try to force the material to listen to their will.

“I like the way you think about materials,” he said, still holding the enamel cup in his hand. “As if it had a will of its own, not just something I controlled.”

“Maybe it's true,” Linh replied, smiling. “I'm just rarely patient enough to listen.”

They sat together, not saying much, just looking at the enamel cup under the sunlight that was gradually changing color in the late afternoon. Linh feels that, after a heavy morning with the new process, this peaceful moment has a special meaning — a reminder that, amidst the heavy responsibilities of running a workshop, there is still room for simple, beautiful things to explore together.

Mr. Phuc, passing by the yard after the morning meeting, stopped to look at the two people sitting next to the enamel bowl, then continued walking without saying anything, a small smile flashed across his lips that neither of them had time to notice. He went into the office, sat down at the table, and took out an old notebook he kept for himself - not a debt book, but a personal diary he wrote when Linh was a child.

He opened to the last page and wrote a new line: "Today, I told the whole factory what I hid for ten years. It wasn't easy, but my heart was much lighter than I imagined. Maybe Linh is right — silence doesn't protect anyone, it only delays the pain.”

In the evening, when the whole family sat down to eat together, a new habit that had formed since Linh returned, Mr. Phuc told his wife - Linh's mother, who was still in the city taking care of her sick grandmother but called home every night - about this morning's meeting. His voice on the phone was somewhat shaky but relieved.

“You did it right,” Linh's mother's voice rang out through the speakerphone, warm and proud. “I told you a long time ago, keeping it a secret only adds to the burden and doesn't help anything.”

Linh stood next to her, listening to the conversation, feeling a warmth spread in her heart. She realized that her ten-day journey back to her village was not only saving a furnace, but also gradually healing the cracks that had silently existed in her own family for many years - cracks that no one could see with the naked eye, but were still smoldering as deep as the cracks in the furnace wall when she first returned.

After the meal, Linh came out sitting alone on the steps, looking up at the starry night sky. Minh came and sat down next to her, saying nothing for a long time.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice gentle. “For creating a space where I finally dared to say what I kept hidden for ten years.”

“I didn't create anything,” Linh replied. "You decided to speak up yourself. I just happened to be here to listen."

“Not everyone knows how to listen without judgment,” Minh said, turning to look at her. “That's a rare thing, Linh.”

Linh didn't answer, just smiled, letting the gentle silence between the two continue to last under the night sky, a silence that was different from the previous times - no longer heavy because of the unspoken secret, but gentle because everything was finally in its right place.

After a while, Minh asked, his voice somewhat questioning. “Do you think, if I hadn't left the village ten years ago, things would have been different?”

Linh thought for a moment before answering. "Maybe. But maybe not. I think sometimes people need to leave to better understand the value of the place they used to live in, like me. If I hadn't gone for eight years, maybe I would never have seen how to divide two product lines, or how to make transparent cost tables like now."

“So you think every mistake has a reason to exist?”

“I don't think so at all,” Linh replied, choosing her words carefully. "But I thought, I can choose to look at the mistake — as an end, or as a starting point for something else. I chose the second way, when I came back here and accepted to tell the truth."

Minh remained silent, nodding slowly, his eyes looking up at the starry sky as if he were reconsidering his entire ten-year journey from a new perspective. Linh sat next to him, not urging him further, just giving him enough time and space needed for his own thoughts, just like how Mrs. Nam always taught her about waiting for the fire to ripen at the right time, not being able to force it, just patiently observing.