Chapter 20 — Potters and the Last Fire Season

The planned final fire season is no longer the last firing of Bach Tho. It was the last time they worked the old way: one person decided, a few kept quiet, and all the debts were in a book that no one could see.

Six weeks of testing had passed, and the day of the final review meeting to decide the long-term future of the workshop had arrived. The whole village once again gathered in the factory yard, but this time the atmosphere was completely different from the first meeting filled with division and confusion. Everyone arrived with concrete numbers in hand, with the actual results of six weeks of collective labor.

Ha stood up to present the summary report, her voice was much more confident than in the first meeting. "Over the past six weeks," she said, "the cooperative has completed seven orders, paid off most of its short-term debt, and started accumulating a reserve fund. More importantly, every decision is recorded publicly, with no hidden books."

Applause rang out from the crowd, not loud but sincere. Mr. Bay Correct, the most skeptical person, stood up to speak. “I used to think this new way of doing things would lose the identity of the profession,” he said. "But I realized that identity does not lie in the way people hide secrets from each other, but in the hands that make the product. Those hands are still intact."

Cooperatives are not yet rich. The warehouse roof still leaks in one corner, the old furnace still needs to have its tiles replaced, and there is a large debt that must be paid periodically. But classes have schedules, orders are limited, and every bowl has someone responsible.

Linh stood before everyone, holding the final report, frankly admitting what was lacking. “We're not rich yet,” she said. "The roof still leaks, the furnace still needs a lot of repairs, the huge debt from ten years ago is still in the legal process. But we have something we didn't have before — a transparent system where everyone knows what they're contributing and what they're getting in return."

The vote took place immediately afterward, with an overwhelming majority agreeing to continue the cooperative model, officially moving from the pilot phase to long-term operation. When the results were announced, a much louder round of applause rang out throughout the yard, marking an important milestone in the history of the nearly fifty-year-old pottery kiln.

Mr. Phuc handed over the warehouse key to Linh. He told her not to keep things the same just because she's afraid others will do things differently. Mrs. Nam hung the cracked bowl next to the door, as a reminder that cracks can become a sign of a remembered fire.

The handover ceremony was brief but emotional, right after the meeting. Mr. Phuc, in front of the entire community, gave the key to the land warehouse - a symbol of factory management rights - to Linh, even though legally, the factory now belongs to the entire cooperative, no longer the private property of a family.

“This is not about giving power,” he said, his voice speaking clearly to the crowd. “This is about giving responsibility to keep this door open, never to close it because of fear or bigotry, as I have done for many years.”

Linh received the key, feeling its weight not only in the metal, but also in the long journey that had brought her to this moment. Mrs. Nam, immediately afterward, brought the cracked bowl from the first test batch and hung it on a small hook right next to the warehouse door, where everyone who came in and out could see it.

“To remind everyone,” she said, “that what is not perfect can still become a valuable part of the story, if we know how to retain the right lessons from it.”

Minh doesn't make big promises. He proposed opening a materials testing table at the back of the workshop, where he would stay one week a month. Linh asked what about the other three weeks. He said he's looking for a way to keep work and life from having to choose between the two.

After the ceremony, when everyone gradually dispersed, Minh came to Linh, bringing with him a proposal that he had been cherishing for the past few weeks but had not dared to say it amid the busy atmosphere of continuous firings. “I want to set up a permanent material testing table at the back of the workshop,” he said. “Not just for yeast and soil, but for any new ideas the workshop wants to try out.”

“Who will be in charge?” Linh asked.

“Me, one week a month,” Minh replied. “My official job is still in the city, but I was able to get an agreement to work remotely most of the time, only needing to be in person one week per month.”

“What about the other three weeks?” Linh asked, trying to keep her voice calm even though there was inevitably a bit of disappointment in her heart.

"The last three weeks," Minh said, his eyes looking straight at her, "I've been looking for a way to keep work and life from having to choose between the two. Maybe work remotely more, or find a position closer to home. I don't have a complete answer yet, but I know I don't want to leave this place again."

Linh laughed, the first time she laughed in relief after a somewhat nervous conversation. She showed him the new design: a kettle with a slightly skewed lid, so the user knew it was made by hand. Minh pointed out three points that need reinforcement. She wrote it down, not feeling offended.

“Is it okay for the lid to be tilted like this when closed?” Minh asked, picking up the drawing and examining it carefully.

“Not sure yet,” Linh admitted. "But I wanted to try. This small deviation could be the unique identity of the new collection."

Minh points out three points on the drawing that need to be adjusted to ensure the fit of the lid is not too affected by the offset design, offering specific technical suggestions based on his experience. Linh took notes on each point, not feeling refuted or offended like the first arguments when they first started working together.

“You've learned how to give feedback without imposing,” she commented, smiling.

“You've also learned how to listen without getting defensive,” he replied.

As afternoon falls, the furnace turns red. People in the village passing by heard the sound of a turntable and the sound of children learning to read fire. Bach Tho will not return as before. It becomes another place, smaller than advertising but larger than memories.

Late that afternoon, when the sunlight began to turn a warm orange color, the pottery kiln was lit for a new batch of firing - no longer a vital "last batch of fire" like in the first weeks, but a normal firing batch in the new rhythm of the workshop, one of many batches that will continue in the coming months and years.

The sound of a rotating turntable rang out from the corner of the yard, mixing with the laughter of the afternoon class, where Mrs. Nam was teaching a group of children how to recognize the color of fire through the small oven door. The children's eyes were round and full of curiosity at the magical changing colors.

Linh placed the bowl Minh gave her on the shelf, next to the first batch. Outside in the yard, smoke from the furnace drifts through the new windy season. She doesn't know what shape love will take. But this time, she knew I want to stay to watch.

She stood at the factory door, looking out over the whole scene — her father was instructing a new worker to repair a corner of the roof, Ha was calculating books at a familiar table, Vy was practicing on the turntable with a confidence that had grown a lot compared to the first day, and Minh was preparing tools for his new material testing table.

She thought about the journey that had passed — from the day she returned with a cracked kiln and a family secret, until today, when a whole community is coming together to continue writing the story of this pottery profession. No fire season is truly final, she realized. Each batch of fire, whether successful or failed, is just a step on a much longer journey, a journey with no fixed end, only successive new beginnings, forged by hands willing to learn and a heart brave enough to stay.

Minh walked over to stand next to her at the workshop door, his hands still stained with dirt from preparing the material testing table. The two of them silently watched the afternoon scene, not needing any words to fill the silence.

“Do you remember what I said the first day?” Minh asked after a while. “About selling land, selling names, or selling decision-making rights?”

“Remember,” Linh replied, turning to look at him. “You said they need to know what they are selling.”

"Looking back now," Minh said, "I think the more important question was not what to sell, but what to keep. And I think we found the answer — not to keep things the same, but to preserve the right to decide together."

Linh nodded, feeling the correctness of that assessment. She looked out into the yard, where the afternoon sunlight was gradually giving way to the gentle darkness of the evening, the pottery kiln still glowing red inside, continuing its silent work — turning the soil into shape, transforming it into objects that carried the stories of so many people.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I need to check the entire class expansion plan again, there are three new families who want to join.”

“And I need to finalize the spec sheet for the new yeast line,” Minh continued, “the one you suggested uses the ash of the chopsticks from around this area.”

“There's still a lot of work to do,” Linh said, but her voice no longer had the anxiety of the first days, instead it was filled with a quiet excitement for what lay ahead.

“Always,” Minh replied, smiling. “But this time, I don't have to do it alone.”

They stood there for a while longer, watching the firelight from the stove shine out into the slowly falling darkness of the yard, that warm light like a quiet promise for all the fire seasons that lay ahead — not perfect, not absolutely certain, but real, and worth walking on together.