Chapter 19 — Room 404 Sea View

The final dialogue session took place in a hotel lobby that was not completely completed, tarpaulins protecting construction materials were still in one corner, but the main area had been solemnly cleaned for the event. The summary report was projected onto a large makeshift curtain, flanked by photos of the fourth floor hallway and detailed diagrams of warehouse 404-B, all arranged in an easy-to-follow chronological order for attendees without a technical background.

Government representatives, standing in front of all the victims' families, local press, and the project team, publicly confirmed that the previous report was wrong on three important points: the actual number of people present in the rescue warehouse area on the night of the landslide, the exact time the official rescue team was called, and the actual state of the seaward gate at the time of the disaster.

“We record this error not to blame any specific individual in the government system at that time,” the government representative said, his voice solemn, “but to officially correct the historical record, ensuring that what is recorded accurately reflects what happened, based on the full evidence that the independent survey team has diligently collected.”

Ms. Hanh stood up, accepted her family's responsibility in correcting the insurance records and received payment based on incomplete information about what really happened at the salvage warehouse. She did not promise to return all the money she received, a commitment that her lawyer advised not to make publicly before an official legal conclusion, but she agreed to set up a support fund for the victims' families, and pledged to open the entire family archive to the investigative agency when needed.

Dat, speaking immediately afterward as a temporary representative for the families, said this acceptance of responsibility was not enough to completely close the landslide, there were still too many questions that had not been fully answered, especially the exact identity of the survivor taken to the hospital that night. Nhi agreed with his point of view, but added that a public acceptance of responsibility, even if imperfect, still has real value when it leads to concrete, verifiable actions, instead of just an empty apology without commitment.

Vu presented a new safety plan for the rescue warehouse area, which includes an independent exit completely redesigned according to modern standards, a signal light system that is restored and periodically maintained, and a public operating log that anyone can look up online, ensuring absolute transparency for all activities related to this area in the future.

Another family representative, who had previously maintained the most skeptical attitude throughout the process, stood up and asked directly why it was necessary to keep the room if the hotel no longer used it for any commercial purposes. Nhi answered, her voice sincere and calm: "Because that place helps people clearly see what decisions were made, by whom, at what time, instead of just hearing a story that has been cleaned and edited to make it more acceptable. The truth, even though imperfect, still deserves a space to exist."

The family representative was silent for a moment, nodding slowly, as if the answer had touched on something he had never thought of in a way. this before.

Vu presented more technical details about the public safety system, answering each question from families about the long-term performance of these innovations, assuring them that this is not a symbolic commitment, but a real system that is periodically tested by an independent third party.

Linh stood at the end of the hall during the ceremony, not giving an official speech, just observing and ready to assist if anyone needed it. When Nhi's mother's name was read in honor of those who participated in the rescue operation that night, she did not cry as Nhi feared she might. She just held her sister's hand tightly for a moment, conveying silent support, then let go as soon as she felt her sister standing on her own feet.

The hotel was officially licensed to partially open at the end of the ceremony, with clear binding conditions: room 404-B cannot be used for business purposes in any form, the current structure cannot be changed without the consent of the newly established supervision council including government representatives, the victim's family, and the hotel management board.

Nhi signed the final design right after the license was officially announced, her hands were no longer shaking like when she first signed the minutes many weeks ago. Room 404 is no longer a strange error that appears over and over again on the digitized drawing. It has become a void with a clear name, with complete records properly maintained, and with specific people, with clear names, responsible for preserving its true meaning for generations to come.

After the official ceremony ended, the victims' families stayed a while longer, chatting with each other, some meeting for the first time despite having suffered the same loss for the past eighteen years without even knowing each other's existence. Dat moves between groups, introduces, connects, acts as a natural bridge between people who once existed only as strange names in each other's profiles.

Nhi stood alone for a while in the corner of the lobby, observing the scene before her eyes, feeling a sense of relief mixed with deep fatigue after weeks of continuous stress. Vu came to stand next to her, gave her a glass of water, said nothing for a moment, just letting the silence between the two have its own meaning.

“You did it,” he said finally, his voice gentle.

“We can do it,” Nhi corrected, looking at him with a tired but sincere smile. “I couldn't have gotten to this point alone.”

Mrs. Hanh, approaching them after seeing the government representative leave, stopped in front of Nhi, her eyes carrying something different from the tense defense of the first weeks. “Thank you,” she said simply. “For not giving up, even when I tried to stop you many times.”

“She also didn't give up,” Nhi replied. “She could have chosen the easier path many times, but she didn't.”

Mr. Tu, standing nearby with his son who came to pick him up, raised his hand to wave at Nhi before leaving, a simple gesture but enough to say everything that needed to be said between two people who had gone through a long journey together full of secrets revealed layer by layer.

When the hotel lobby lights began to be turned off to prepare for closing for the day, Nhi stopped and looked around once. Finally, her eyes stopped at the large board hanging near the entrance to the memorial, where the names of everyone involved in the night of the landslide — victims, rescuers, survivors — were fully engraved, no one was called "unknown" anymore.

She reread each name on the board, stopping longest at her mother's name, engraved in shiny bronze letters under the soft hall light: full name, title of station duty officer, and a brief note about the rescue action that night, no embellishment, no exaggeration, simply the truth that had been confirmed through many independent sources of evidence.

Vu stood next to her and silently read along. “She will be remembered exactly as she was,” he said softly. "No more, no less. I think that's the fairest thing I can do."

Nhi nodded, feeling a strange peace spread in her heart, different from the dull pain that had accompanied her for the past eighteen years. This was not the end of that pain, she knew, but it was a new fulcrum, much more solid than the fragmented, uncertain memories she had had to cling to before.

“Thank you,” she said, turning to look at Vu. “For believing in me from the first day, when I didn't dare believe in what my eyes saw on the drawing.”

“I only believe in what I can measure,” Vu replied, smiling slightly. “Fortunately, everything you find can be measured in the end.”

They stood there for a while longer, in front of the nameplate, in the middle of the now almost deserted hotel lobby, the lights finally turned off, leaving only the faint light from outside shining in through the large glass windows, where the night sea was still whispering steady, unchanging waves, as it had done for thousands of years before any of them were present in the world.