Chapter 1 — Summer After the Rain

Linh returned to An Binh on an afternoon that smelled of fresh mud and wet bougainvillea. The bus dropped her off in front of the market, where Aunt Tam's banh noodle stall still had a "special today" sign hanging up even though it hadn't changed the dish for three years. The smell of shrimp paste mixed with the smell of charcoal smoke from the pancake oven at the corner of the market, the smell of fresh mud rising from the small creek running across the entrance, all rushed into her at the same time as if the town didn't know how long she had been gone. There was the sound of the neighborhood radio broadcasting old weather reports, there was the creaking sound of a rickshaw, and someone called a child's name to come out to eat in a high-pitched voice loud enough to echo across three blocks. Linh stood for a moment amidst all those familiar yet strange sounds, feeling like she was listening to an old song that she had tried to forget the words to.

She dragged her suitcase across the riverside road, trying not to look toward the Ha Vang theater. The suitcase's wheels scraped against the cracked cement floor, making a steady clicking sound like a clock counting down. The wind blew from the river, carrying steam and the smell of moss, passing through her shirt, causing each strand of hair to stick to her neck. Linh remembered that An Binh was always so humid in the late afternoon, even when it hadn't rained all week. She had forgotten many things about this place, but her body had not forgotten. Her hand automatically tightened the suitcase strap every time she passed a corner, as if the reflexes of a child who had once run and jumped on that same road.

The theater stood at the end of a slope, its yellow paint peeling in patches and its awning tilted like an old person bending to avoid the rain. The nameplate had faded so much that the word “Vang” was barely a streak brighter than the wall around it. Linh's father used to say that the theater was not beautiful, but it knew how to hold on to laughter. After his death, the lawyer sent her a short text message: "You have seven days to decide whether to sell the property or accept the estate." Linh only wanted to sign the sale, collect the money, and return to the city. She had rehearsed that statement the entire six-hour bus ride, imagining herself walking in, signing her name, and then leaving before anyone could ask how she was. But standing in front of the faded wooden door, she realized her plan had never considered how the theater would smell, or how heavy her feet would feel as she walked closer.

Minh appeared in front of the theater door wearing a yellow raincoat that was too large, even though there wasn't a single drop of rain. The sleeves covered half of his hands, and the hem hit his knees every time he stepped. He held a set of jingling keys, and on his shoulder hung a towel that had turned gray from being used too many times.

“Are you Linh?”

“If you are the buyer, I don't want to hear the price yet.”

"I'm a projector repairman. My price is a bowl of noodles and the right to complain about you leaving the theater for three years."

Linh looked at him. "I didn't quit. I just didn't come back."

“Another name for giving up is not coming back for a long time.”

He spoke so calmly that she didn't know whether to be angry or laugh. There was something in his voice that wasn't as joking as his previous words, as if that sentence had been on his mind for a long time, just waiting for the opportunity to say it. Linh was about to respond, but Minh turned away and put the key in the old lock as if the conversation had ended from the beginning.

Minh opened the door. The smell of dust, damp wood and old velvet rushed out, so strong that Linh had to slightly wrinkle her nose. It was the smell she remembered more clearly than her father's face in recent years - the smell of a summer movie theater, mixed with seat glue, motor oil and a bit of mold in the corners of the walls that hadn't had sunlight in a long time. The seats were covered with tarpaulins, the white screen was yellowed like an old person's skin, the box office was full of scrolls of posters that were so faded that only a few colors could be recognized, and half of the actors' faces were long gone, no one could remember their names. Dust floated in the light shining through the door, slowly as if trying to find a place to land.

A blue light flickered on by itself on the screen. Minh turned back to look at the projection room, then rushed up the stairs, his footsteps pounding on rotten wood. Linh followed, her heart beating faster than she wanted to admit. The old projector started by itself, even though it was not plugged in, emitting a soft hum like the breathing of a machine that has just been awakened. A shaky video appeared: the river rising, people carrying sandbags, Linh's father standing under the awning, behind her was her much younger mother, her hair tied up, holding something in her hand that Linh couldn't see clearly.

The footage cut out before they could be heard speaking.

Linh took a step back, bumping into a chair with a broken leg, making the entire row creak. Her father died with the false reputation that he lost relief money in the flood eighteen years ago. Her mother left soon after, never explaining. Over the years, Linh had learned not to ask, not to mention, not to let anyone in the city know that she had grown up in a town where her father's name was spoken in low tones, as if just saying it out loud would make it more true.

Minh removed the lid of the machine, his hands moving expertly through each screw like someone who had done it hundreds of times. “There's still film in there.”

“Don't watch anymore.”

“I can take it off.”

“I said don't.”

Minh stopped. For once, he wasn't joking. He just said softly: "Okay. But you have seven days. Maybe this video will be the same."

That suspended sentence hung in the dusty air of the projection room longer than Linh wanted. She didn't ask what he meant. She feared the answer would prolong her planned stay, and she wasn't ready for that, even though a part of her, a part she hated to admit, was starting to get curious.

That night, Linh slept in the upstairs room, where the curtains still hung her mother's hairpin, covered in dust as thin as a layer of dew that had accumulated over many seasons. The bed creaked every time she turned, and the ceiling had a map-shaped stain that she remembered naming as a child, although now she couldn't remember what it was. Her phone lit up with a message from the lawyer. She typed “for sale,” then deleted it. Her finger stopped on the bright screen, her thumb pressed down and released three times before she turned off the phone completely. Outside in the yard, Minh was arguing with a cat because it was on the fuse box.

An Binh had changed, but some familiar absurdities remained. Linh opened the window. The smell of rain entered with Minh shouting: "I'm not a chair, don't sit on me!" The cat responded with a contemptuous growl, then voluntarily jumped to another wooden crate, as if it had just done him a favor.

Linh laughed even though she didn't want to. Laughter escaped her so suddenly that even she was surprised, her hand reflexively went up to cover her mouth as if afraid someone would hear her being happy in a house that was supposed to be sad. She told herself to only stay for seven days. Only seven days to sell the theater, finish the film and leave the place where people still call her father "the man who lost the flood season".

But before going to sleep, Linh heard the sound of the door locking downstairs. She went down to the ticket office and saw Minh checking each lock, recording each turn of the key in a small leather-bound notebook with frayed corners. He did it slowly, seriously, not like the person who had just argued with the cat less than ten minutes ago. The light from the table lamp cast a pale yellow halo on his face, making the wrinkles around his eyes from smiling more obvious, and Linh suddenly realized that he was older than his joking appearance.

“What are you doing?”

“Inventory.”

“Does the theater have an alarm system?”

"Have."

"Where?"

"I."

Linh crossed her arms, waiting for the next joke, but Minh just looked at her calmly, as if that answer was serious enough. He explained that the theater no longer had cameras and the alarm had been broken before she went to college. He didn't tell anyone because her father hated having everything in the house recorded. He once told people to go to the theater to forget they are being watched, not to be watched more.

Linh looked at the scratches on the ticket counter, her fingers lightly gliding over each groove as if reading braille. She doesn't remember them, but Minh does. He pointed out the round mark left by the old ticket vending machine, the pencil line of Hau's scribbled picture of a ship when she was ten years old, and a streak of red paint from the time her father repaired the nameplate and spilled the entire can of paint onto the wooden surface. Each mark has a story, but she only has a void, and that void is suddenly heavier than she thought.

“What did my father say before he died?”

Minh did not answer immediately. He sat down on the doorstep, the keys lying on his palm, his thumb twirling one key as if looking for courage.

"He told me not to let the theater be torn apart piece by piece. He said if you come back, don't force you to stay. The theater can wait, but people can't."

Linh found that sentence annoying. Her father always spoke as if he knew what others needed, while never asking her if she wanted to return. She clenched her hands in her lap, feeling an old anger rising, a feeling she had kept hidden for years under the shell of a busy adult.

“Did he mention my mother?”

"Have."

“Say what?”

"He said Linh's mother had kept part of the truth. Not the whole thing."

Linh raised her head. “Do you know where my mother is?”

“Know the city. Don't know the address.”

“Then why didn't you say it?”

“Because you haven't asked.”

“I just asked.”

“Now I answer.”

Minh's calmness made Linh want to throw the keys at him. She didn't. She just pulled out the chair opposite her, the wood of the chair squeaked under her weight, then asked him to tell him about the day her father passed away. Minh said he fell ill after one time checking the dike gate, returned home soaking wet at midnight, coughed for a whole week but refused to go to the hospital until there was no other way. He did not leave any clear last words, just asked Minh to guard the theater and deliver a box when Linh arrived.

“Which box?”

Minh looked up at the projection room, his eyes seemed distant. "I haven't found it yet. Maybe it's in a place where you haven't opened it yet."

Linh hated that answer, but knew it was probably right. Her father's house still has many locked doors, drawers that have never been opened, days she tried to forget. She stood up, went to the ticket office, pulled the tarp over seat number 13. Dust flew up into a small cloud in the light, making her cough. Under the chair is a loose piece of wood, slightly warped as if trying to signal something.

Minh told her not to pry with her nails, his voice was more urgent than usual. He took a tool from his raincoat pocket — a small flat screwdriver that was always at hand as if he carried it everywhere — and gently pried. A bronze key fell, hitting the tile floor with a clear metallic sound, with the letter "H" engraved on the top. There were no locks in the theater with that word, at least the locks Linh knew.

Linh took the key and saw that the back had a groove that resembled a river, winding through three small bends as if someone had tried to carve the very river running through this town. Minh didn't notice, his eyes were still glued to the piece of wood he had just lifted, looking to see if there was anything else hidden underneath. She decided not to ask further. The first night had been filled with so many questions, and each one opened up a cold room she wasn't prepared to enter.

They locked the theater. Minh went home on an old motorbike, the engine sputtered a few times before giving up, and Linh stood under the awning, watching the road gradually darken under the yellow streetlights. Somewhere in the market, the sound of a dog barking rang out and then died down, leaving a silence with only the sound of insects chirping from the riverbank. Before starting the engine, he turned around and said: "If you really only stay for seven days, use tomorrow to check out the things your father wants you to see, not the things others want you to sell."

Linh did not respond. She went up to her room, placed the key next to the unopened letter, her hands shaking slightly as she placed it on the dusty table. Outside the window, An Binh was silent under the yellow light, only the sound of river water lapping gently on the embankment in the distance. For the first time, she thought seven days might not be enough to leave a place that had been waiting for her for so long. She lay down, her eyes wide open, staring at the map-shaped stain on the ceiling, and for the first time in years, she let herself think about the question she'd avoided the entire bus ride: if her father was truly innocent, then who made the whole town believe he was guilty?