Chapter 21 — Summer After the Rain

That night, the whole town lost power suddenly, without any warning signs. As soon as the theater's transmitter turned on, it turned off, the screen showing a white streak like a scar in the thick darkness. Minh crouched under the electrical panel, searching for each fuse in the flickering light of the flashlight. Linh shined the light for him. Hau held the fan with her hand for fear of hot customers, waving it continuously until her wrists were tired.

A sound echoed on the roof, sharp and compact like the sound of metal hitting metal. Minh ran up and saw that the projector cable had been neatly cut with a sharp object. It's not mice, it's not rain. He called the police, and Linh locked the file warehouse with trembling hands. When he returned, the copy of the tape disappeared from the drawer.

Everyone panicked. Mrs. Nam held a broom and stood in front of the door, declaring that she would beat anyone who intended to destroy the theater. Her posture was as tough as a female general guarding the city. Aunt Tam asked her if she could distinguish bad people in the dark. She said no, but if she made a mistake, she would apologize later, making the whole group laugh amid fear.

Minh searched for shoe prints on the roof with a flashlight panning every corner. One has a wave-shaped sole, like the South Coast logo imprinted on a thin layer of dust. Linh did not want to jump to conclusions right away, but was still careful to accurately report every trace to the police, without adding or subtracting any details.

In the darkness, waiting for the power to come back on, she and Minh sat in the last row, their hands still shaking from the recent panic. He said if the theater is demolished, they will set up a screen on the riverbank. Linh asked if the whole river bank was destroyed. Minh replied that it would shine on the clouds. The joke made her laugh, but also made her think about the fact that Ha Vang is no longer a building. They can lose the wall, but it is not easy to lose the people who have seen each other in its light.

The lights came back on near midnight, and small cheers rang out from the few people who remained. Under seat number 13 there is a folded piece of paper: "Not everyone who wants to delete a movie is afraid of the truth. Some people are just afraid that others will remember." Linh placed it in the evidence box, her hand was a little cold when she touched the paper. She didn't know if the sender was on their side or just playing a dangerous game. But that sentence reminded her that the fight isn't just against one company. It resists even carefully organized forgetfulness.

The next morning, the projection room window was pried open, with fresh scratch marks on the wooden frame. No loss of projector, no loss of funds. The intruder only took copies of the film and rummaged through the filing cabinet, papers scattered all over the floor. Mai said it was a sign that someone knew exactly what they needed, not a random theft. Linh checked the hard drive and saw that Hau had previously backed up to an offline account. He did it as if it were unintentional, but everyone simultaneously patted his shoulders and praised him.

“I'm just afraid of losing the popcorn photo,” Hau said, trying to keep a straight face.

“That photo has no legal value,” Mai replied.

“But there is sentimental value.”

Ward police took detailed photos of the scene and asked if the theater had cameras. Hau pointed to a toy camera placed on the counter and said it captured the entire scene of the cat sleeping. Mrs. Nam said at least the cat didn't lie, causing the young police officer to stifle laughter while making a report.

Mai made a record of the incident and requested that all locks be replaced. Linh called each person to contribute documents, reminding them to keep copies more carefully. Some people panicked and wanted to take back the statements they had provided. She doesn't blame. She just explained that being silent out of fear was something she had lived with for too long, and she understood better than anyone how heavy that feeling was.

To identify the intruder, Mai asked the group to re-create a detailed timetable. Hau remembers seeing a truck in the back alley, Mrs. Nam remembers the sound of an iron door, and Minh remembers the shadow of a person walking on the roof. The three accounts do not exactly overlap, but all point to about ten minutes of power outage, a short period of time but enough to cause damage.

Linh asked to extract the camera from the store opposite. The image was black and grainy, but there was one notable detail: the other person did not enter from the main gate but used a secondary key. That key was given to South Coast staff during the theater's warehouse rental period several years ago. Phuc said the company had recovered everything, but the handover list did not have a confirmation signature, a suspicious loophole.

A young police officer asked Linh if she was sure she wanted to let the past go. She replied that she did not pull anything; The people who dragged them were the ones who returned to the theater at night to get evidence. The policeman was silent for a moment, then added another line to the record, his eyes somewhat admiring.

Minh changed the locks, installed door sensors and posted regulations that no one enters the projection room alone. He wrote very large letters with a red marker, causing Hau to say that the theater had its first rules, which looked like a threat. Linh kept the same, because a place that has been invaded needs to clearly state what it will protect, and cannot be softer anymore.

In the evening, Linh read the minutes to her mother in the sole light of the desk lamp. Mom asked her if she wanted to stop. Linh said she wanted to stop many times, but every time she looked at the theater door, she remembered the people sitting in the dark waiting to be called. Mom does not advise. She just placed her hand on the page, keeping it from being flipped by the wind, a small but meaningful gesture.

The next morning, Linh called the store across the street again to ask for the original camera copy, her voice patiently explaining the importance of this. The store owner said he could only keep it for seven days, but still tried to find it in the old machine for her. He was able to send a ten-minute clip in which a figure passed by just as the theater lost power, his gait was limping a bit strangely. Not enough for clear identification, but enough for them not to miss that detail in the file that is growing thicker day by day.

All morning, Minh did not leave the projection room, just went in and out to check the newly installed lock three or four times even though nothing had changed. Linh realized that he was not as calm as he appeared last night. She brought him a cup of tea and sat down next to the table full of tools.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

“I'm afraid I wasn't here at the right time.”

“You can't be everywhere at once.”

"I know. But knowing doesn't make the fear any less."

Linh remained silent, understanding that feeling better than anyone else. She told him about the nights in the city, when she lay awake wondering if she should have returned sooner, if there was something she had missed during her years of absence. Minh listened, did not interrupt, just nodded softly as if he was memorizing each sentence.

He recounted, in a slow voice, about the night his mother died, about the feeling of standing outside the emergency room of the district hospital, listening to the steady hum of machines but not understanding the meaning of each beep. He said at that time he also wondered where he was during the years when his mother was still healthy, why he didn't spend more time with her instead of fixing machines all over town for other people. Linh placed her hand on his shoulder, not saying anything, just letting her do her job in silence. The two sat like that for a long time, in the middle of a projection room full of electrical wires, sharing with each other the fears that neither of them dared to say out loud before.

At noon, Hau ran in to report rare good news amid stressful days: a group of student volunteers in the city, after reading Thu An's article, contacted to ask for support in installing a free security camera system for the theater, considering it as a practice project. Linh hesitated at the unexpected suggestion, but Mai carefully checked the student group's background and nodded in agreement. That afternoon, for the first time in many days, the atmosphere in the theater felt a little relieved, as everyone pulled strings, mounted cameras, and teased each other about who would be the first to be caught on camera falling asleep in the middle of their shift.

The group of students, five young people with backpacks full of tools, worked all afternoon under the curious supervision of Mrs. Nam, who asked every few minutes if the camera could film the whole corner of the kitchen because she was afraid someone would steal her tea. A student named Thao, quiet but working carefully, explained to Linh how to review images via phone and how to set up alerts for unusual movements at night. Linh took notes every step of the way, appreciating the enthusiasm of young people who had never met but were willing to spend an entire weekend to help an unfamiliar movie theater.

Late at night, when the camera system had successfully tested, Minh stood in front of the surveillance screen, watching the first recording over and over again: just a scene of a cat walking across the hall, its tail waving proudly. He called Linh out to see, and they both laughed at that simple image after a long and stressful day. Linh said that perhaps this was the first time the theater's most modern technology was used to record a lazy cat, and Minh replied that sometimes that small peace is the thing most worth protecting—more precious than the thick documents piled up in the filing cabinet.