Chapter 10 — Summer After the Rain

Ms. Nam is the person who holds the most tickets in An Binh. She had movie tickets, bus tickets, consignment tickets, lottery tickets that didn't win, and debit notes that no one remembers, all layered in a wooden box whose corners were worn from her hands opening and closing over the years. She said a ticket is proof that a person intended to go somewhere, whether they eventually went or not.

In her wooden box, Linh found thirteen Ha Vang theater tickets on the same day of the flood. The paper was yellow but the ink mark was still clear. Each ticket has a blue ink stamp stamped in the upper right corner. Mrs. Nam said that Linh's father gave tickets to the rescue team, not to watch a movie but to let them go into the theater to avoid the water. Her voice was slow as if narrating a slow-motion movie in her head. Those who had tickets were listed in the book, but that book was taken away a long time ago.

“Why do you keep the ticket?” Linh asked, her fingers lightly running through each old ticket.

“Because my dad said if anyone asks, you have to say they were there.”

Mrs. Nam does not remember who took the book. She only remembers a car with the Bo Nam Company logo parked in front of the theater a few days after the flood, the wheels still covered in red mud. At that time, the company did not have that name, but the wave-shaped logo was identical to the symbol on Phuc's contract, a small detail that made Linh shiver.

Minh took a magnifying glass to look at the ink marks, leaning close to the table under the light. Some tickets had the symbol H, some had the letter M. Linh recognized that the letter M resembled her mother's handwriting, the familiar curves she had seen on birthday cards as a child. She called her mother, her hands shaking slightly as she dialed the number. Mom answered the phone but didn't speak, only the sound of steady breathing passed through the line.

“Mom was at the theater during the flood, right?”

“Who told you?”

“I saw the movie.”

Mom was silent for a long time, long enough for Linh to clearly hear her heart beating. Linh asked why she took her away without saying her father was innocent. Mother replied over the phone that the truth at that time could not save all three of them. There was a person who threatened to make Linh disappear from the support file if her father did not accept responsibility, and her mother's voice trembled when she recalled that.

“Do you think silence will save me?”

“I think you're too young to live with that fear.”

“I lived with it for eighteen years.”

The call ended with a long beep. Linh stood by the river and saw turbid water flowing under the bridge, swirling around the moss-colored concrete pillars. Minh came later, his steps were light on the wet ground, and he gave her a dry towel. She tells him not to use towels to fix things. He said this time the towel was just a towel, without any other meaning.

Hau ran over, panting, announcing that the test screening license had been signed, but Mr. Phuc sent someone to check the electrical system. The inspector was Phuc's cousin, with an overbearing appearance. He looked at the wires through the speakers and declared that the theater was unsafe. Minh asked if he could point out the error. He said "you'll know when you see it", his tone was disdainful. Minh took a pen and slowly wrote his name in the notebook, causing the other person to leave immediately without having time to say another word.

“What did you just do?” Linh asked.

“Recording who sees with the eyes.”

In the evening, the whole street helped fix the electric wires, laughter mixed with the sound of hammers resounding throughout the theater yard. Those who contribute wires, those who contribute light bulbs, those who contribute, everyone brings a little something of their own. Linh stood at the ticket gate, looking at that scene with a warm, strange feeling. She no longer thought she was saving her father's fortune. She is keeping a room for people who once had tickets but no one remembers them coming.

An old electrician, whose hands were still greasy, told Linh that he had learned the trade from her father, when he was still a young man who did not know how to hold pliers properly. He said Linh's father was not good at fixing electricity, but he was very good at standing next to the person doing the repair and saying things to calm them down. “He often said, just think of it as untying a shoelace knot, don't think of it as a bomb,” the electrician laughed, his hands still quickly connecting each piece of wire. Linh wrote that sentence in her head, without paper and pen, because she knew she would remember it for a long time.

Hau ran around handing out water to everyone, occasionally stopping to ask if anyone needed him to film a "behind the scenes" video, and was consistently rejected by everyone who was busy with pliers and screwdrivers. Mrs. Nam sat on a stool in the middle of the yard, commanding from afar with a voice as loud as a street speaker, occasionally adding an old story about the time Linh's father burned out an entire coil of wire because of connecting the wrong color. That atmosphere, although busy and somewhat chaotic, made Linh feel like she was in the middle of something bigger than a repair session — an evening when the whole town, without anyone telling anyone else, decided that the Ha Vang Theater was worth keeping.

In Mrs. Nam's ticket box, there was one sheet left undelivered. On it is written seat number 13. On the back is the mother's writing: "If Linh asks, show her." The handwriting is small and compact, as if written in a hurry but full of intention.

Linh held the ticket, squeezing it tightly in her palm. There's only one night left for the preview screening.

The night before the screening, Ha Vang theater was lit until late, light shining from every window like a ship anchored in the dark. People in the street brought electrical wires, plastic chairs and old curtain rolls, piling them up in the middle of the lobby. A boy placed a glass jar containing savings on the ticket counter, the coins jingling together, saying he wanted to contribute so that "the theater doesn't turn into a supermarket." Linh intended to return it, but he ran away before she could say anything. Mrs. Nam put the jar in the donation box, her eyes were red, she turned away to hide her tears.

Minh climbed up the ladder to check the circuit breaker, the flashlight above his head shining through the tangled bundles of wires. Linh held the foot of the ladder, listening to him call each color of rope from above. He always made jokes, but every time he touched the old joint, his face tensed up like he was solving a math problem that couldn't be wrong, his fingers moving slowly and firmly. Hau brought out the coffee and accidentally added salt instead of sugar because he took the wrong jar in the dark. Minh took a sip, his face unchanged, calmly saying it was "the taste of responsibility".

Near midnight, the sound of broken glass rang out at the back of the theater, so sharp and sudden that everyone was startled. Everyone ran over and saw a stone lying on the tile floor among broken pieces of glass, with a crumpled piece of paper: "Sell before someone gets hurt." Linh called the ward police, her hands shaking as she dialed the number. Minh walked around the yard, his flashlight panning through every corner, discovering muddy shoe prints pointing towards the alley leading to the embankment. He didn't chase after him, just took a picture with his phone and returned to lock the gate. His decision was calmer than Linh's thoughts.

Linh sat behind the ticket counter, her hands shaking even though she tried to hide them. She asked if it would be safer to cancel the screening. Minh sat down opposite, his eyes unusually serious.

"Safety is not always standing still. Sometimes it means turning on the lights so others can see who is throwing rocks."

“You say it like you're not afraid.”

"I'm scared. I'm scared that the theater will close, I'm scared that you'll leave, I'm scared that after I fix it, no one will see it."

Linh looked up, her heart beating faster than when she heard the sound of broken glass. He said that sentence very naturally, then immediately turned to adjust the electric cord as if he hadn't said anything, his ears were slightly red under the light. She didn't ask more. She took ticket number 13 and put it in her pocket, feeling it warm from her hand.

Her mother texted a line: "I'm getting on the last bus."

Linh read it to Minh, her voice trembling with both excitement and hope. He just nodded, saying that tomorrow the theater would have another demanding audience. She laughed, her fear eased a bit, although she was still confused about how to mentally prepare for the meeting after eighteen years. Outside the door, the rain had stopped. In the sky after the rain, a small space of stars appeared among the fading clouds. Linh pulled the curtain, letting starlight fall into the hall. Ha Vang is not as bright as before, but it still has enough light to wait for people to return.

Linh walked around the theater, checking each lock, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet space. She texted her mother that the screening would take place, but if she didn't want to go home right away, there was no need to force her. The message only received a heart symbol, short but making her eyes sting. She put away her phone and walked into the projection room. Minh is wiping dust on the lens with a soft cloth, moving slowly and carefully. He said tomorrow the audience will see more clearly. Linh replied that she was the same, her voice was as light as a silent promise to herself.

She sat down on the stairs leading to the projection room, watching Minh work in silence. There's something comforting about the way he repeats each small movement, as if just wiping one lens clean would make the whole world a little less chaotic. She thought about her mother, sitting on a night bus with no way to go, about her father, who was no longer here to witness this show, and about herself, a week ago planning to sell everything in seven days but now staying up late cleaning the projector with a man in a strange yellow raincoat.

Minh stopped and turned to look at her. “What are you thinking with such a serious face?”

“I was thinking what if everything goes well tomorrow.”

"Then we have to worry about other things. There's always something else to worry about."

Linh burst out laughing, a small laugh echoing in the quiet projection room. She realized that that statement, as pessimistic as it sounded, was strangely comforting: that life would go on, that there would always be work to do, and that she no longer had to face that to-do list alone.