Chapter 15 — Potters and the Last Fire Season

The green ash glaze line was tested in an old furnace after reinforcement. Linh and Minh divided shifts, Ms. Nam read the fire, Mr. Phuc recorded the heat. No one stands outside to direct others.

This was the most important firing since the group began their six-week experiment, the first to fully incorporate all the lessons they had learned—the refined green ash glaze recipe, the soil mix according to Mrs. Nam's recipe, and the new safety procedures written up after Minh's confession.

They divided into twenty-four hour shifts to watch the furnace, each person was in charge of a specific period of time, and recorded details according to the new procedure. Linh took the first shift, sitting next to the fire viewing hole, holding a notebook to record every smallest change in color and sound.

In the middle of the batch, the air valve jammed. Minh tried to open the oven door, but Linh stopped him because the heat was not safe. They have to wait, even at the risk of losing the entire batch. During those ten minutes, the sound of metal contracting sounded like someone tapping a fingernail on the wall.

“The air valve doesn't turn,” Minh said, his voice tense as he checked the control equipment. “If there is no wind, the heat will accumulate, which can ruin the entire batch.”

He reached out to open the oven door to check directly, but Linh grabbed his hand and stopped him. “Wait,” she said, her voice determined. "The current temperature is still at a dangerous level if the door is opened suddenly. According to the new procedure, we need to cool down slowly before intervening."

Minh paused, looked at her, then nodded, remembering the same protocol he had helped draft just a few days before. “You're right,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “I almost made the same mistake I made ten years ago — acting hastily because I was afraid of losing the batch.”

The ten minutes of waiting passed slowly, each second heavy with the worry that the goods could spoil at any time. The metal of the furnace frame contracting as the temperature fluctuated made a steady clicking sound, like a tense countdown timer.

When the temperature cooled, Mr. Phuc climbed up to check. A refractory brick was displaced, causing the airflow to be forced to one side. They fixed it and then waited another hour before continuing.

Mr. Phuc, with many years of experience, quickly determined the cause - a brick in the kiln dome had moved slightly due to heat pressure accumulated over many previous firings, blocking the airflow to the air valve.

“It's not an equipment failure,” he said, after a thorough inspection. “It's an old structural error that has existed for a long time, but it just hasn't surfaced until now.”

Minh and Mr. Phuc worked together to repair the brick, a job that required absolute care because the furnace was still hot. Ms. Nam stood and supervised, occasionally giving instructions on how to make adjustments so as not to further affect the surrounding structure.

The oven door opens after twelve hours. The green enamel bowl has small spots and thin but durable walls. No two are exactly alike. Linh held one up in the sunlight. The enamel color changes from ash green to silver gray.

The moment of opening the furnace door took place at dawn, when everyone, despite being exhausted after a long night of watching the furnace, still gathered to witness the results. The first light of the new day shines through the newly opened oven door, illuminating the row of bowls neatly arranged inside, each covered with a different layer of sparkling glaze.

“It's like the surface of a river after the rain,” Minh said, picking up a bowl and turning it slightly so the light reflected through each speck of glaze.

Linh recorded in the book: Batch number 15 — passed, uneven according to design, uniform in durability. They named the yeast line Last Fire Season not because the factory is about to close, but because each batch of fires only happens once.

She sat down at the table, carefully recording every detail in a notebook that had grown considerably thicker after weeks of experimentation. Besides Minh's technical numbers, she adds her own emotional descriptions — the way light plays on the enamel surface, the feeling of touching each small ridge.

“Why is it called the Last Fire Season?” Mrs. Nam asked, curious about the sad-sounding name even though the firing results were very positive.

“It's not because the factory is about to close,” Linh explained, smiling. "But because each batch of fire, even using the same recipe and the same temperature, still produces different results, it cannot be repeated exactly. Each batch is its own last."

Mrs. Nam nodded, seemingly satisfied with that explanation. “Nice name,” she said. “Remind people to appreciate what they have, instead of waiting for a more perfect batch in the future.”

That afternoon, the first order of the yeast line was placed in two days. They don't raise prices quickly. Linh wants to know if customers buy the bowl because of the story or because they really want to use it.

News of the new enamel line spread quickly through social networks, largely thanks to photos Minh took of the firing process and the final result, posted with a brief story about the challenging night of kiln watch. Orders poured in faster than expected, forcing Ha to create a waiting list for later customers.

“Should I raise the price?” Ha asked, seeing that demand far exceeded supply. “Basic economics, if demand exceeds supply, prices must rise.”

Linh thought for a moment before answering. “No,” she said. “I want to keep the price stable for a while longer, to see who my long-term customers really are — those who buy because they like the product, not those who buy because they are afraid of running out.”

Minh asked her if she was happy. Linh said happily, but not reassured. A good order does not prove the factory is safe; it just gives them more time to get it right.

“This is just a successful batch,” she said, looking out into the yard where the kiln still radiated gentle warmth from the long night of firing. "There are many more batches ahead, there is still unresolved debt, there is also the question of co-ownership still hanging in the air. I'm happy for today, but tomorrow there is still a lot to do."

On the bus ride back to the village, Minh gave her a small green enamel bowl. I've kept it from the first test batch. Linh accepted without asking why he intended to give it to her.

The old motorbike drove slowly on the dirt road, the cool afternoon wind after the rain a few days ago blew through Linh's hair. She held the small bowl in her hand, feeling its modest weight, remembering the first night when she and Minh tried a batch of thirty together, not knowing in advance whether they would survive the fire or not.

“You kept it all this time?” she asked, even though she already guessed the answer.

“Yes,” Minh replied, still looking straight ahead. “It was the first one to prove we could do something together, even if the results weren't perfect.”

Linh smiled, didn't say anything more, just held the bowl tightly in her palm the rest of the way, letting the warm silence between the two speak for itself of things that didn't need to be named.

When she got home, she placed the bowl on the shelf in her room, next to the ceramic pattern drawing competition certificate from class ripe. Two keepsakes, more than fifteen years apart, one representing her earliest dreams, the other representing a new beginning she never expected to have when she returned to the village.

That night, before going to sleep, Linh sat down to write in the fire's notebook, not technical numbers, but a short thought she wanted to keep. “Batch number 15 taught me something more important than the yeast recipe,” she wrote. "Sometimes, waiting at the right time is more important than acting hastily. Ten minutes of a stuck air valve almost caused me to lose the entire batch, but those ten minutes also taught Minh and I to learn to trust the process we built together."

She closed the notebook, put the pen on the table, looked out the window where the moonlight was shining into the quiet workshop yard, the furnace still had a little warmth from the previous firing. She thought about the remaining journey of the six-week trial, about the debt that had not yet been completely resolved, about the co-ownership terms that were still hanging in the balance, waiting for Son to decide whether to make it public or not. But for the first time since returning to the village, she felt like she was no longer just getting by day by day, but actually building something sustainable that could last for a long time to come.

The next morning, when she went out to the yard early as usual to check the entire batch one last time, she saw Mr. Phuc standing there for a long time, holding one of the new green enamel bowls in his hand, admiring it in the still gentle morning sunlight. He didn't say anything when he saw her, just showed the bowl to her, a simple gesture but enough for Linh to understand that her father, who was skeptical of all changes from the first day she returned, now truly believes in the path that both father and son are rebuilding together from the beginning, brick by brick, fire by fire.