Chapter 3 — Potters and the Last Fire Season

Minh brings a line of test glaze with green ash color. The recipe uses rice husk ash, limestone and lower heat than old yeast. Linh did not like the first color; it was too cold, like a corrugated iron roof after rain.

He placed a row of small cups containing liquid yeast on the table, each cup numbered with a marker. Linh picked up each bowl and looked at it under the window sunlight, watching the color change from green-gray to ash-gray depending on the ratio of rice husk ash.

“Where do you get the ashes?” she asked.

"The brick factory is next to the district market. They burn rice husks all year round, there is a lot of ash left over but no one buys it."

“How much cheaper than old yeast?”

"About a third. But that doesn't include the work of filtering the ash, which takes more time."

“Not all new enamel needs to be beautiful right away,” Minh said.

“Ceramics are sold to consumers, not to laboratories.”

They tried ten ratios. Nine flow rates, one creating a smooth but mottled surface. Minh recorded each ratio in a separate notebook, along with the firing temperature and heating time, while Linh sketched each color sample on paper, noting the feeling when touching the surface after cooling.

Ms. Nam said the spots were a sign of fire, not a fault if the buyer knew in advance. She picked up cup number seven and turned it around in the light, her fingers running over each small spot as if she were reading braille.

"In the old days," she said, "people called these spots eyes of fire. Wherever the fire licked more thoroughly, that place left its own mark. No one can force the fire to lick evenly everywhere."

Linh designed a set of small bowls that keep fingerprints on the bottom instead of grinding them flat. Minh recommends recording the temperature and soil source on the product tag. Her father was worried that guests wouldn't want to listen to the technicalities.

"Customers buy bowls to hold rice, not to read reports," Mr. Phuc said, standing at the factory door looking in, his voice still a bit skeptical.

“Guests don't need to understand everything,” Linh said. “But they need to know what they are buying.”

“Do you think everyone has time to read a little card before buying a bowl?”

"Not everyone reads. But readers will be the ones who come back to buy a second time."

Mr. Phuc did not answer, just shook his head slightly and turned away, but Linh realized that he did not object to the end like before. Perhaps because he was too tired to argue any further, or perhaps because a part of him was also curious to see where his daughter's idea would go.

They choose the first batch to test, placing the bowls far enough apart to allow heat to circulate. Linh learned how to arrange according to Minh's instructions — each at least three finger joints apart, alternating between layers so that no one blocks the airflow of another. Mr. Phuc stood outside, did not interfere, only occasionally nodded when he saw a reasonable arrangement.

When the oven door is closed, the whole factory hears the sound of the fan and the smell of hot earth. Mrs. Nam closed the lid of the fire viewing hole and told no one to open it to check before the first six o'clock, no matter how impatient they were.

“Opening early means letting the heat escape at the wrong time,” she explains. "The land is still learning how to withstand the fire. Opening the door halfway is like waking up someone who is half asleep - once you wake up, it's difficult to fall back asleep properly."

Linh and Minh sat next to the heat meter. He said he left the village because a batch of yeast from the past ruined a large order. Mr. Phuc did not let him say the reason was poor imported land.

“At that time I was only twenty-two years old, just finishing school,” Minh said, looking at the red light of the oven. "An order for three hundred sets of dishes for a restaurant in the city. I miscalculated the melting temperature because the soil mix was not as reported by the supplier."

“Does your father know that the land is wrong?”

“I know. But I don't Tell the customer, just silently pay a part of the money. And I thought I was the only one at fault.”

“I thought I wasn't good enough,” Minh said.

“Maybe you were just given the wrong land.”

“Now that I think about it, that's true. But at that time I was twenty-two years old, not alert enough to distinguish between technical errors and material errors. I only saw three hundred sets of broken bowls, and thought I had no place here.”

Linh remained silent, looking at Minh's hand placed on her knee. The long fingers that had been trembling for years were now firmly holding the pen to write down data. She partly understood that the reason he left the village was not only because of failure, but because no one had time to tell him that it was not entirely his fault.

Heat increases slowly. A sensor detects deviation, Minh adjusts the valve. Linh looked at his hand, remembering the boy who once hid the broken cup under the table. She realized she was smiling alone in the dark, and quickly retracted that smile before he could turn around.

They took turns watching the stove all night, each sleeping fitfully for two hours on a mat next to the thermometer table. At one point, Linh woke up and saw Minh bending down to write down a number, the red light from the oven shining on half of his face, and she wondered how long it had been since she'd seen anyone work with such patience.

At dawn, the furnace stabilized. They didn't know how the bowl would turn out, but for the first time in many years the workshop had something made with its own discretion. Linh stood up, stretched, looked at the first light of the new day filtering through the cracks in the corrugated iron roof, illuminating the still hot furnace, and felt something in her heart was also being rekindled, slowly and in no hurry.

Mr. Phuc came out earlier than usual, carrying a pot of hot tea. He did not ask about the temperature, just poured three cups, placing one cup in front of Linh, one cup in front of Minh, and the remaining cup he kept for himself.

“Dad, aren't you sleeping?” Linh asked, accepting the steaming cup of tea.

“Get some sleep. The stove called me awake, I'm used to it."

Minh took a sip of tea and looked at Mr. Phuc questioningly. “Can you still hear the sound of the furnace through this distance?”

"If you listen to the same sound for thirty years, your ears will automatically distinguish which ones are normal and which ones are not," Mr. Phuc replied, looking towards the still closed oven door. “Last night the fan sound was steady, no screeching noise. Should be fine.”

Linh looked at her father and realized that this was the longest sentence he had given Minh since she returned. Perhaps an all-nighter by the stove had softened some of the reserve he still held towards the man who had ruined a large factory order.

They sat drinking tea in silence, waiting enough time for the oven to cool down before opening the door. Mrs. Nam arrived not long after, carrying a basket of hot dumplings, placing them on the table without saying anything, as a ritual she did every time the workshop had an important fire.

“Eat before opening,” she said. "If you're hungry, it's easy to get impatient, but when you're impatient, your hands can easily drop things."

Linh laughed, holding a cake, feeling the heat spreading through her palm. She looked around—her father, Mrs. Nam, Minh, all sitting around an old wooden table, waiting for the results of a small test batch as if it were the most important thing of the day. Maybe it is.

When the waiting time was long enough, Minh stood up first, placing his hand on the oven door latch. He looked at Linh, as if asking if she was ready. She nodded. The heavy cast iron door was pulled open, a stream of remaining hot air blew out, bringing with it the characteristic smell of terracotta and cold ash that Linh was familiar with. since childhood but still makes her heart beat faster every time she smells it.

Inside, thirty bowls were still lined up in place, covered with a thin layer of ash. Mr. Phuc held a flashlight and shined the light across each layer of shelves. There were no broken ones lying around, no glaze running out on the sole like the broken batches they had seen before.

“It's all intact,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion even though he tried to remain calm.

Minh took each one out and placed it on the examination table under natural light in the yard. He gently tapped his finger on the edge of each jar, listening to the sound - a clear sound that showed the soil was evenly cooked, with no cracks hidden inside that the naked eye could not see.

“All are ripe,” he said, putting down the last one. “The enamel is slightly different in shade, but that's what I expected.”

Mrs. Nam picked each one up and looked at it carefully under the sunlight, nodding with satisfaction. She selected three with the most beautiful enamel colors and set them aside as if they were for display. Linh stood looking at the row of bowls, a feeling of relief rising slowly, not as explosive as she imagined, but spreading like the remaining warmth in the heart of the furnace.

“This is only a test batch of thirty,” Ha reminded, her voice matter-of-fact as usual, although she couldn't hide the smile at the corner of her mouth. “We still have to figure out whether we can do it in larger quantities, and have enough firewood and enough land to sustain it in the long term.”

“Step by step,” Mr. Phuc said, placing his hand on Linh's shoulder, a rare gesture he rarely did. “Knowing that I can do it today is enough joy, my child.”

Linh looked at her father, seeing in his eyes a light she hadn't seen in a long time - not pure joy, but something like hope that had just been rekindled after months of only ashes, fragile but real, enough for the whole family to look forward a little further.