Chapter 3 — Pottery Kiln Fire Keeper

The land purchase proposal paper lay silently on the table for three days straight. No one in the family had the courage to mention it, but its silent presence was like a boulder weighing down every meal and every unfinished conversation between father and son. Van Khe deliberately ignored it, burying herself in work more than usual — kneading soil, shaping, preparing yeast — as if she could just keep busy enough to stop the anxiety from creeping into every corner of the house.

On Tuesday afternoon, when Van Khe was sitting at the turntable, shaping a large doe used to hold wine - a sophisticated product that required skillful hand stroking techniques because the dome's walls had to be evenly thin but still stand firmly, Mr. Vong walked in, holding the proposal paper, his face somewhat calmer than the previous days.

— What do you think about this? — he asked, placing the paper on the stool next to the turntable.

Van Khe did not stop moving, his eyes still glued to the rotating mass of soil under his skillful fingers, feeling every bit of change in wall thickness through his fingertips.

— I think they paid such a high price because they were afraid, — she replied, her voice surprisingly calm. — If the Vong Nguyet kiln still stands there, and someone still mentions their village's wood-fired ceramics, their industrial ceramic brand will forever be just imitations and substitutes. They want to erase the original, so that no one will remember that another type of pottery, more beautiful, more soulful, once existed here.

— What you say makes sense, — Mr. Vong sighed, sat down on the stool, and raised one hand to rub his chest out of habit. — But reason cannot pay for hospital bills, my child. Last month, the doctor said that if my father's heart doesn't get better, he might have to have a stent installed, but that cost...

He didn't finish his sentence, but Van Khe understood. She stopped, let the block of soil stand still on the turntable, looked straight at her father, trying to suppress her voice from shaking.

— Dad, if we sell the oven, what do you think grandpa will say?

— Your grandfather has passed away, Khe. — Mr. Vong's voice suddenly became harsh, but then immediately softened, carrying a deep fatigue. — The living must take care of the living first. I don't want you to be burdened with a furnace full of debt and risks, while your youth continues to pass by on a pile of clay, without a husband or children, just because you kept a promise to a deceased person.

That sentence was like a bucket of cold water poured straight into Van Khe. She never thought her father would view her keeping her job in such a heartbreaking way — not as a source of pride, but as a burden, a meaningless sacrifice. She placed her hand on the soil, feeling its cool moisture, trying to calm down.

— I didn't keep the stove because of my promise, father, — she said, her voice low but firm. — I keep it because I love it. I love the feeling of soft soil under my hands, love the smell of wood smoke, love the moment I open the oven door after seven days and seven nights and see the ceramic glaze shining like magic. If you sell your furnace, you don't lose a job, you lose a part of yourself.

Mr. Vong looked at his daughter for a long time, his eyes both sad and a little bit like pride creeping in. Finally, he stood up and took back the proposal paper.

— Dad, give me more time. But you have to show me that your path can actually be followed, not just a nostalgic dream. For the large batch of kilns you plan to make, you must plan carefully and be sure, don't lose both the lead and the hook.

He left, leaving Van Khe alone at the turntable, both relieved because she had more time and heavy because she understood that the burden of proof was now completely on her shoulders.

*

That night, after dinner, Van Khe took a flashlight out to his grandfather's old house again, determined to find the missing leather notebook. She searched every drawer, every corner of the chest, but still found no trace. Just as she was about to give up, she suddenly remembered the small wooden cabinet next to the wall, where her grandfather often kept personal items that he did not want anyone touch. She pulled open the closet door, inside were a few old clothes, a chipped hookah, and at the bottom of the closet, hidden behind a layer of canvas, was the leather notebook she was looking for.

It turned out that the night before, when she heard that there were visitors, she accidentally put the notebook in this drawer instead of on the table as she thought - memory sometimes plays tricks on people in times of panic. She breathed a sigh of relief, hugged the notebook in her arms, sat down on a wooden bench in the middle of the house, lit an oil lamp for more light, then slowly opened each page.

The first pages are in my grandfather's familiar handwriting, records of firings from his very young years - perhaps when he was in his early twenties. Most are experimental glaze recipes, proportions of ash, clay, finely ground quartz, and notes on temperature and firing time. But the deeper she read into the middle of the notebook, the more Van Khe realized there was something different - these pages not only contained formulas, but were also mixed with confessions, like a miniature diary.

"July fifteenth. Today, Truong and I tried the ninth batch of ash glaze. We still haven't got the desired color, but Truong said, just be patient, one day the yeast will bloom exactly as we hope - white as the full moon, but shining with jade color when shined in the sun. We named it right now, even though it hasn't finished yet: Nguyet Bach glaze. Truong said, if we can do it, we will have the same name, share the recipe, regardless of the oven. who."

Van Khe stopped reading, her heart beat faster. Truong — definitely Chiem Vinh Truong, Khang's grandfather. So, the story of the feud between the two families began with a friendship, a common dream called Nguyet Bach yeast that she had never heard anyone in the family mention.

She turned a few more pages, seeing the handwriting still steadily recording each failed experiment, then small success, then failure again - showing the arduous journey of two young friends pursuing an almost impossible type of yeast. But on one page, the handwriting suddenly became unusually scribbled and shaky, as if the writer was in a state of extreme pain.

"September twenty-third. I don't know what to write anymore. Everything collapsed overnight. Tan is no more. I..."

The text stopped suddenly, the rest of the page was violently torn, leaving a jagged gap at the edge of the paper. Van Khe turned to the next page, but it had also disappeared - someone, a long time ago, had deliberately torn out the most important pages of notes, leaving only that haunting opening sentence.

Who is Tan? What happened that fateful night?

*

The next morning, Van Khe went to the house of Mr. Giang Van Thoi, a veteran furnace worker who had been with her family since her grandfather was young. Mr. Thoi lives alone in a small house at the end of the neighborhood. Since his wife's death, he has rarely socialized, only hanging around his vegetable garden and a few chickens.

— Did Khe come to visit? — Mr. Thoi smiled gently, invited her into the house, and poured a cup of hot green tea. — Is the kiln planning to fire a new batch lately?

— Yes, I'm preparing, — Van Khe replied, then hesitated for a moment before getting straight to the point. — Mr. Thoi, do you know what happened between my grandfather and Mr. Truong of the Chiem family? I just read a few lines in my grandfather's notebook, mentioning a person named Tan, then saying "Tan is no more"...

Mr. Thoi's face suddenly changed color, the cup of tea in his hand stopped midway. He put the bowl on the table, his eyes looking distantly at the front yard, where a few chickens were digging in the ground looking for worms.

— That... — he sighed, his voice lowered — that happened thirty-five years ago, my dear. At that time, he had only been working as an assistant for Vong Nguyet furnace for a few years. He was still very young and did not understand everything. But he remembered, that night was a night of experimental firing, the rain was very heavy, everyone in the village talked about it for many years later...

He paused, as if considering whether to continue speaking or not. Van Khe held her breath and waited, feeling like she was standing on the threshold of a great truth that her whole family had tried to bury for more than three decades.

— Tan, — Mr. Thoi finally spoke, his voice choked — is Mr. Truong's younger brother. That night, he helped watch the furnace, then... then had an accident. The burn is very severe. Didn't make it.

Van Khe felt a cold streak running down her spine. One death. A terrible accident was enough to separate two families who were once as close as blood, enough to make her grandfather carry that secret with him until he died, not daring to reveal it to his children or grandchildren.

— But why did that accident happen? Whose fault is it? — she asked, her voice trembling.

Mr. Thoi shook his head, his face full of torment.

— I don't know everything about that, dear. He was only an assistant worker and was not allowed to be near the furnace that night. Only my grandfather and Mr. Truong know the situation clearly. But both of them, for the past thirty-five years, have never said a word to anyone.

That answer did not calm the curiosity in Van Khe's heart, but on the contrary, made it burn even more fiercely. She looked out at the sunny courtyard and thought to herself: if her grandfather could not tell the truth when he was alive, then perhaps she would have to be the one to find it, no matter how much pain she had to face from the past.