Chapter 19 — Summer After the Rain

Minh edited tapes in the projection room, working hard all evening under the sole light of the desk lamp. He used Aunt Tam's hair dryer to dry the damp bandage, a small screwdriver to remove the box cover, and a patience Linh had never seen in him before. Hau stood next to her and read the instructions online but mistakenly opened the cake teaching video, making the whole room laugh amid the tense atmosphere of anticipation.

The recording recovered Mr. Hai's voice, so clearly that it made all three people in the room silent. He asked Phuc to change the dyke gate data, saying the maintenance money had been transferred to a separate project. Phuc protested weakly, but eventually fell silent, his sigh clearly heard through the noisy tape. At the end of the tape, there was the sound of Linh's mother entering, the sound of quick footsteps on the cement floor.

“If you do that, it'll be the entire south bank,” she said, her voice shrill with indignation.

Mr. Hai replied that he would let Linh's father take responsibility. Phuc asked what about Linh. Mr. Hai said that a child is not worth destroying the future of many people, his voice was cold and chilling.

Linh heard and felt angry with all three people. They talked about her future as if she didn't exist, as if she were just a pawn in an adult's game. Her mother held her hand, squeezing it so tightly that it hurt, saying she wanted to give the tape to the police, but Mr. Hai threatened to falsify Linh's records. Her father chose to admit his mistake so she could go to school, so she could have a future not tainted by the crimes of others.

“But mom also chooses,” Linh said, her voice shaking.

"Yes. Mom made the wrong choice many times."

Minh turned off the phone. The room was silent, except for the hum of the ceiling fan overhead. Hau brought out the cakes, but no one ate them, the cakes lay still on the plate like a forgotten gesture of comfort. Mrs. Nam said the truth was not dessert, but living people still needed to eat, then she herself broke off a piece of cake and gave it to Linh.

They copied the tape into three copies, sent one to a lawyer, one to a journalist, and kept one at the theater in a fireproof box. Do not post publicly without protection. Linh did not want to take revenge on Phuc; she wanted him to stand in front of those who had been pushed away, to face the consequences of what he had chosen.

That night, Linh sat under row number 13, leaning her back against the cold chair. Minh found her and asked if he wanted him to sit next to her. She says if you sit, don't joke. Minh sat down, was silent for four minutes, then asked if he could breathe, his voice trying to suppress laughter.

Linh laughed, a relieved laugh amidst heavy emotions. She leaned her head on his shoulder. There was no confession, just the sound of the projector running test echoing from the projection room and a small period of peace amid the storm of secrets that had just been exposed.

Journalist Thu An arrived at the theater early the next morning, without a camera, just a worn-out notebook. She wrote about the flood years ago but the post was removed after a call from her superiors, a professional trauma she still remembers clearly. Thu An said she did not want to turn Linh into a character in a sensational article. She wanted to check every detail, then let the people speak in their own voices.

Mai showed her the file, each file was carefully arranged. Linh played the tape with Phuc's voice, but asked that this meeting not be recorded. Thu An immediately agreed without further convincing. Together they went to the witnesses' homes, passing through streets whose shape the flood had forever changed. Some people clearly remember the time the water rose every minute, others only remember the smell of oil spills and the sound of children crying in the dark night. Thu An did not force anyone to remember the same, just quietly recorded each separate story.

A witness suddenly withdrew his statement when he saw a strange car parked in front of the house, his hands shook with fear. Linh wanted to follow and ask, but her mother stopped her and held her hand tightly. Mai said protecting that person is more important than a statement. The group sat in the theater until dark, quietly adjusting the timeline on the wall board, crossing out anything that was no longer certain.

Hau proposed showing the film to the whole town immediately. Mai said she would only do it after having a safety plan. Hau asked what else to do. Mai replied that she must prepare a copy, a spokesperson, a lawyer's phone number and an emergency exit. Hau wrote down each item in the notebook and then asked if popcorn needed to be prepared. Mrs. Nam said that was the only thing he knew, making the whole group laugh amidst the long list of tasks.

Linh went to check the emergency exit door and discovered that the lock was stuck and could not be opened. Minh removed the hinge and replaced the new latch with meticulous movements. He did it for a long time because he didn't want the door to suddenly close in an emergency situation. Linh stood next to her, handing out a flashlight, the light trembling with her anxious breathing. When finished, they tried opening it from the inside. The door made a dry sound, then opened into the backyard full of overgrown weeds.

“My escape route is still there,” Minh said.

“Just stuck.”

“A lot of things in this town are the same.”

Late at night, Linh found an unnamed envelope on chair 13, placed neatly as if someone had left it on purpose. Inside was a copy of an old message, the sender had Phuc's phone number: "If Mr. Khai doesn't sign, keep her at the gate." Linh was cold, her hand trembled as she held the paper. Her father was threatened with more than just paperwork. Someone once tried to use her as a hostage, a fact that made her want to vomit.

Mai asked not to make it public immediately. Linh put the envelope in a fireproof box, then sat on the floor until Minh found her huddled in the corner of the room. He didn't ask if she was okay. He asked what distance she wanted him to sit at.

Linh pointed to the side. He sat down and remained silent for more than four minutes, giving her time to compose herself without being rushed into comforting her.

Thu An sent a draft of the article to all witnesses, giving them the right to request names be removed or incorrect details be corrected before official publication. Some people want to remain anonymous, some people want to have their full names recorded for the first time after many years of silence. Linh read each response, realizing that the common story can only exist when the individual stories are not crushed into a homogeneous mass.

The article was published on a light rainy morning. Ha Vang is still open as usual. People come not to watch the news, but to ask each other which part is the record and which part is the narrative. Linh sees it as a good thing: they begin to distinguish between memory and truth without disregarding memory, a small but important growth for the whole community.

A reader sent Thu An a photo of the clock in the radio room, recording the exact time the warning was postponed. The photo has not been verified, but the sender agreed to hand over the original. Linh called to thank him, then reminded everyone not to share his address. They were gathering facts, not hunting people, a principle she repeated to the group.

Thu An made an appointment with the sender at the theater, where there were cameras and witnesses to ensure the safety of both parties. Linh prepared the water, Mai prepared the minutes, everything was carefully arranged like a familiar ritual. A new clue doesn't make them run faster; It makes them walk more carefully, step by step, like they are crossing a bridge that is not completely secure.

The person who sent the photo, turned out to be an old man who used to work at the town's radio station, came to the theater late one afternoon, holding an old wooden box in his trembling hands. He said that for eighteen years, he kept a film of the wall clock in the duty room, because it was the only evidence he could think of to prove that he had tried to issue the warning on time but was ordered to postpone by his superiors. He did not dare to give it to anyone for fear of implicating his son who works in the government sector.

Linh invited him to sit and poured him a cup of hot tea. He said, his hands still shaking, that that night he argued with his superiors for the only time in his life, but was dismissed with one sentence: "You are just the person on duty, not the one who decides." That statement haunted him for nearly two decades, making him always wonder if if he had been tougher, how many people would not have had to lose their homes.

Mai recorded the story, carefully asking if he agreed to have his name appear in official records. He nodded, his voice choked up, saying that he had been waiting for that question for so long, so long that he thought he would take this secret to his grave. Linh looked at him, at the old wooden box on the table, and realized that the truth about that flood night was not contained in a single roll of film or a single recording. It was scattered among dozens of people, each holding a small piece, waiting for the courage to put it on the table.