Chapter 23 — Summer After the Rain

Linh's mother told everyone about the flood night, her voice was steady, trying to stay calm even though her hands were clutching the hem of her shirt the whole time. She said Linh's father asked her to film because he knew the documents could be changed, knowing that the words of a woman holding a camera could be more trustworthy than the red stamps on official documents. She recorded the meeting, hid the tape in the projection room behind a loose board that only she and her husband knew about, and took Linh away when Phuc warned Mr. Hai that he would take revenge on anyone who dared to speak up.

She admitted that she did not return because she was afraid of the theater itself. Every time she heard the sound of the projector running, she remembered the sound of water hitting the door that night, a sound that haunted her to the point that for many years she did not dare enter any movie theater, even in strange cities where no one knew who she used to be. Linh asked why she didn't call. She said she had called many times, picked up and put down again, but when she heard her son's voice, all she could do was ask him if he had eaten, as if all the important explanations were stuck somewhere between her throat and her heart.

Hau gave Linh's mother a plate of popcorn. His awkward but sincere gesture made the atmosphere less heavy. She ate a grain and said it was salty. Minh said the whole town cooked salt to preserve memories, a light joke at the right time. Linh smiled, the first time she smiled in front of her mother since the day she returned, a small smile but enough to make her mother feel her eyes sting with emotion.

Her mother agreed to officially testify before the relevant authorities. She also gave the name of the person who received the maintenance money. That person was dead, but his son was working as an official in the province, a detail that made the group silent for a long time before Mai spoke up and reminded everyone to be doubly careful when dealing with such powerful names.

Linh was afraid that the incident would turn into revenge, afraid that the anger that had accumulated for eighteen years would turn into an uncontrollable fire. Mom said justice is not revenge, but if someone is responsible, don't call it misfortune. She said it with a rare steadfast look in her eyes, as if eighteen years of separation had trained her a new bravery.

That night, mother and daughter slept in their old room, the moonlight filtering through the curtains covered both of them with a pale halo of light. Linh asked her mother if she wanted to stay. Mom said she didn't know, but she wouldn't leave without telling her, a small promise, but to Linh, it was heavier than any oath.

The mother's testimony adds a complicated twist to the file. She once saw Phuc receive a folder of documents from the maintenance manager, then pass it on to his superiors in a secret meeting in the parking lot behind the project office. The recipient of the money in the book is dead, but his son now holds an important position in the province. Mai warns not to arbitrarily call names online, even if it's just a hint. Linh nodded, even though inside she wanted to scream to let everyone know immediately.

They send requests for documents through official channels, following the correct procedure, even though they know it will take a long time. Three weeks later, the reply said the file was no longer available, an answer so familiar it was almost predictable. Mai is not surprised. She asked to confirm the document and registration number, then submit the complaint according to the correct procedure. The legal work was so slow that Hau told a screw to turn faster, making the whole group laugh amid the tiring days of waiting.

Linh's mother started selling tickets, a new job for her after many years away. She remembered the old ticket prices but forgot the new code system on the tablet Hau had just installed. An audience member gave her a large bill, and she mistakenly changed it with two packages of popcorn instead of change. Linh had to run to explain, trying not to laugh at her mother's embarrassment. Mom blushed and said it had been a long time since she had a job, making her afraid of making mistakes, afraid of upsetting customers like a new employee.

“Mom can study again,” Linh said, her voice softer than she expected.

“I'm afraid you don't want me here.”

"I'm afraid mom will leave without telling you. Two different things."

Mother and daughter made a small calendar and placed it at the head of the bed. If Linh's mother went out, she wrote down her destination and return time, even if she was only going to the market to buy vegetables. Linh said the book was not surveillance, just a way for the household to know that the person inside would return, a small but necessary assurance after years of uncertainty. Mom agreed, her hand shaking as she wrote the first line in the notebook.

That night, they slept in their old room. Mom said Linh used to like to sit in seat 13 because from there she could see the emergency exit, a safety habit that little Linh had established for herself in the past that no one had taught her. As a child, Linh thought that was the position closest to adults. Mom remembers her hugging her dad's neck after every sad movie, and dad pretending not to cry because of projector dust, a cute lie that the whole family implicitly understood and no one exposed.

Linh asked her mother if she wanted to stay after the theater stabilized. Mom said she didn't know, but she wouldn't leave without telling her. The promise sounds small, but to Linh, it is the first brick of a once vacant house, a fragile but real foundation.

The first night her mother stayed, Linh heard the sound of a sewing machine coming from downstairs, as steady as breathing. She went up to look and saw her mother repairing an old coat of Minh's, the needle and thread moving quickly under the yellow light. Minh stood by the door, not knowing whether to go in or leave, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Your shirt is torn at the shoulder,” Mom said. “If you keep repairing it without replacing it, there will be a time when there will be no more fabric left.”

Minh replied that he was more used to repairing things than buying new ones, a saving habit from difficult years. Mom looked at him and asked if he treated his heart the same way, constantly patching it up without daring to let it heal completely. He remained silent, not knowing how to answer the unexpected question. Linh intended to relieve herself, but her mother turned back to the seam, leaving that question hanging in the air like a planted seed.

Mother and daughter talked about small things: the price of electricity, the person at the counter, and the salty soup that became a familiar joke for the whole group. No one mentioned Phuc. Late at night, her mother gave Linh an envelope she had just found in her suitcase, the paper had discolored with time. Her father wrote on the day of Linh's university entrance exam: "If you choose to leave town, don't think of it as treason. A place worth keeping must give people the right to go away."

Linh gave the letter to her mother. She said she had forgotten that sentence, or tried to forget it, because it reminded her of so many things she wished she had done differently. She said he often knew how to write the right thing after making things harder, a comment that was both reproachful and sympathetic.

Mother smiled sadly, her eyes looking distantly out the dark window. They put the letter in the box, next to the calendar and ticket number 13. The old house did not return, but the upstairs room began to have the sounds of two people learning to live together, small sounds like footsteps, running water, soft laughter in the middle of the night.

The next morning, Linh's mother wrote down the counter schedule, her handwriting was still a bit shaky but clear. She wrote her name next to cases with older customers, because she remembered many of them, familiar faces from eighteen years ago who were now much older. Linh looked at the calendar and saw that her mother was no longer the one waiting for an explanation but was the one contributing to the operation of this place, a silent but meaningful transformation.

The first time Linh's mother worked at the counter, she met an old friend. Both women's eyes were slightly surprised when they recognized each other after so many years. The two talked in short sentences, avoiding the flood like a puddle, taking every step carefully so as not to touch old wounds. Linh did not interfere, just stood far away and observed. At the end of the shift, the friend bought a ticket, saying he would come back next week. Mom wrote her name in the guest book, her neat handwriting as if writing a small promise to herself.

That weekend, the friend indeed returned, this time bringing her husband and two small children. Linh's mother stood behind the counter, her hands shaking slightly as she tore up the ticket, but her voice was much steadier than last week. Linh stood watching from afar and saw her mother smiling at that small family, a smile that was no longer as reserved as the first days she came home. She realized that there are wounds that do not need to be expressed in words to heal; Sometimes they heal through ordinary afternoons like this, through being an ordinary ticket seller among other ordinary people.

That evening, when closing the counter, her mother asked Linh if she could invite her friend to the testimony gathering meeting next week, because she remembered her friend's husband had been one of the drivers carrying relief goods on the night of the flood. Linh nodded immediately, feeling a small joy creeping into the midst of the heavy days: the network of people willing to speak up was growing, not because they were forced, but because they saw that Linh and her mother dared to go back and face the past.