Chapter 20 — Summer After the Rain

The seventh day became the thirtieth day, and then that milestone passed quietly without anyone bothering to count anymore. Bo Nam Company sent a lawsuit, asking Linh not to change the theater's status quo, with a red stamp stamped on the corner of the page as a challenge. The lawyer said the sale contract had not been signed, so legally they were still safe, but the bank debt was still a heavy pressure on Linh's shoulders every night.

Linh opened a neighborhood meeting right in the theater lobby, chairs were lined up from the front row to the entrance. She openly disclosed the debt, repair costs and the risk of lawsuits, her voice did not hide any numbers. She said if there isn't enough money, the theater could lose. Some people offered to sell assets, others contributed money on the spot. Mrs. Nam took off the old bracelet on her wrist and said she would sell it to raise funds. Aunt Tam deducts the tea shop's revenue all week. Minh gave all his savings, a wad of old money rolled up and tied with an elastic band.

Linh refused Minh's money. He said it was money he owed her father. Linh said that debt cannot be paid by making himself poor.

"I'm not poor. I just have less money than you."

“I'm also about to have no money.”

“So we are the same.”

That answer made the whole room burst into laughter amidst the tense atmosphere. The laughter spread like a gentle breeze to relieve the oppressive atmosphere of the debt figures, and in the end Linh also received a small part from Minh, enough to make him feel like he had contributed and not been left out. They set up a fund to save the theater that night. People buy tickets in advance for unscheduled shows, trusting in an uncertain future. A school set up a theater as a venue for year-end performances. The flow of money is small but steady, like drops of water gradually accumulating into a stream. The lawyer advised Linh to apply for the theater to be recognized as a community space, a long but more solid legal path.

In the middle of the meeting, Phuc suddenly appeared, not wearing the square ring like before. The entire hall fell silent when he entered. He said he could withdraw the lawsuit if Linh sold part of the land behind to the company. Linh asked him if he was afraid of the recording. He replied that he was old and did not want to die with a bad reputation. His voice sounded more tired than arrogant.

“My father lived with a bad reputation because of him,” Linh said, her voice hardening.

Phuc bowed his head, not responding immediately. He did not ask for forgiveness, did not promise anything more. He just stood there for a long time amid the scrutiny of the entire meeting room, then quietly left without saying another word, leaving a heavy silence behind.

That night, after everyone had gone home, Minh hung a new sign right in front of the gate: "Ha Vang — not closed yet." He wrote the word "not yet" very large, the paint still wet on the wood. Linh asked why she didn't write "open door". Minh said hope also needs to be honest, not promising more than what they actually know.

Linh stood next to him, looking at the lighted theater in the middle of the night. She knew they were only in the first half of the story, and the heaviest rain, she had a hunch, was still ahead.

A few days later, Phuc requested a private meeting in the screening room. He came alone, without a lawyer. His appearance was somewhat different from the proud man Linh had first met. Linh wanted to chase him away, but Mai said to listen, as long as there was someone standing outside the door. Minh stood next to the projector, holding his phone with recording turned on in accordance with legal regulations.

Phuc looked at the white curtain for a long time, saying he thought this place would be destroyed a long time ago. He kept the file not because he regretted it, but because he was afraid that if he handed it over, the person behind it would drag his whole family down. That person is the former leader of the project, now retired but still has underground influence in many areas.

“He blamed my father to protect himself,” Linh said.

"Yes. I thought that if only one person had a bad reputation, the rest would live."

“Do you know what you took away from my mother?”

"I know. But at that time everyone thought they were saving someone."

Phuc brought out an old file, the leather cover had frayed corners because it had been stored for too long in the dark. In it was the original order to open the dike gate and the name of the person receiving the maintenance money, pages of paper that the whole town had been waiting for eighteen years. He did not ask for forgiveness. He just said that if Linh wanted to use them, he would sign to confirm. In return, she must agree not to turn him into a symbol of all evil.

Linh replied that she did not need a symbol. She needs each thing to be called by its correct name. Phuc nodded, looking lighter but not at peace, like a person who had just put down a rock that he had carried for too long but still didn't know how to stand up straight again.

After the meeting, Mai said the records helped reopen the case, but they still had to prove the chain of responsibility step by step. Thu An prepares an article based on new documents, while the town holds a vote on the future of Ha Vang. Phuc was invited to participate as a related party, not the decision maker.

On voting day, the theater yard was crowded with people, the sound of paper fans waving under the sweltering heat. Some people want to sell it to get money to build a shopping center. Some people want to keep it the same. Someone proposed turning the theater into a combined cinema space, library and skills class. Linh stood up and said she had no right to promise that everything would be easy. She only promised that all decisions would be made public, without hiding any numbers or reasons.

The results were breathtakingly close, each vote was read aloud amid alternating applause and sighs. The community conservation option won by a margin of seventeen votes. Hau jumped on the chair to celebrate, dropping the results board to the ground. Mrs. Nam scolded him to jump low, the theater had just had its roof repaired not long ago, don't let a moment of joy destroy the whole structure.

Linh looked at her mother, at Minh and those who had signed in support, her heart filled with an emotion that was hard to name, both relief and trembling. The theater rescue fund was enough to pay off the first debt, but the work ahead was longer, longer than she had ever imagined when she first set foot in An Binh.

After the vote, Linh realized that the decision to keep the theater was not immediately unanimous. Some households want to sell their land, some households are afraid of not having enough money for long-term repairs. She set up a consultation group, inviting those who had protested to participate, not excluding anyone. Mai said a sustainable plan must withstand difficult questions and cannot just be built on easy consensus.

Minh drew a three-year chart on the back of an old movie poster, his pencil strokes clear in each box. Each quarter has a specific goal, budget, and responsible person. Hau asked what if he didn't pass. Linh replied that she would publicly reveal the reason and correct the plan, not hiding the failure in any form.

A few weeks later, Phuc sent the original file to the lawyer, but kept a separate page. He said it was a confession signed by Linh's father, a page he had kept as a guilty treasure for many years. She didn't want to watch, but Mai told her she had the right to decide that for herself. Linh read and saw that her father had written: "I admit I was wrong because I couldn't stop everything." She understood that he was not completely innocent, it was just that his crime was not what they had forced him to admit for the past eighteen years.

That night, Linh stood for a long time in front of the sign "Ha Vang — not closed yet" that Minh had hung up a few weeks ago. The word "not yet" has faded a bit from the sun and rain, but is still clear enough to read. She thought about her father, about the pages she had just read, about the long road ahead that they had just gone halfway through. Minh stood next to her, said nothing, just quietly reached out and held her hand, as if to confirm that even though the journey was long, she would not have to go alone.

Linh's mother brought out two cups of tea, placed them on the steps and sat down next to her daughter. She said nothing about the page she had just read, just quietly looked at the light shining from the ground floor windows. After a while, she asked Linh where she planned to keep that confession page. Linh said she would put it in the main file box, not hide it separately, because her father, whether right or wrong, deserved to be remembered with the full truth, not an image crafted to look beautiful.

Mom nodded, raised the tea cup and took a small sip. She said the years of separation had taught her one thing: people cannot choose the past from which they were born, they can only choose how to tell it to those who come later. Linh looked at her mother, at Minh, at the lights of the Ha Vang theater shining into the cloudless night sky, and for the first time after many tense weeks, she allowed herself to believe that perhaps, even though the road ahead was long, they were on the right track.