Chapter 3 — Tailor Shop at the End of Third Alley

Chau created a list of fixed objects in the alley: cracked stone steps, almond trees, iron doors and blue paint on electric poles. An said that the fixture also has a date of change, so the date of observation must be recorded. He showed her photos taken from the same corner, where a potted plant had been moved but water stains remained on the background.

Ngoc asked people about the path, no one was allowed to speak for others. A baker told me that his son once walked through the door after having a fever. A book seller remembered that Khai often left the lights on. The stories do not have a legal signature, but they record the same question: “How sure are you?”

Chau realized that investigation is not about collecting as many words as possible. It's about keeping each word in its place, not pushing a memory into a number.

That night, An sent a photo of the gray car. The license plate only had two characters left, but the lanyard on the mirror had a V-shaped button. Chau asked if she should report it. An said they would record it, waiting for another mark. He learned not to turn his suspicions into the hunted.

Maps are not just measured with rulers. Chau asked the old lady opposite to show her old invoices, then and Ngoc wrote down the addresses by year. There are five houses called "number 8", there are five houses called "lot C", but the path is still in the middle. A geography teacher explained that changing names does not change locations.

An used his phone to take a photo of the wall shadow at the same time. The light slid across the engraving, helping them compare the height of the pile. Chau stood holding the rope, her nose reddened by the sun. An gave her the hat, she said the hat smelled of oil. He said it was the smell of work, then put it on her head.

Khoa drew an arrow on the map, but this time asked first. Ngoc allowed, asking for a date. He said asking first made him feel old. Chau said it was a symptom of responsibility.

At the station that night, the old ticket seller gave them a copy of the handbook. Trang Khai sat waiting to be marked with purple ink, but there was no trip. He bought a ticket and then refunded it. The seller remembers him saying he didn't want to leave the city by rail.

Chau matches the red line on the ticket with the arrow on the drawing. It refers to the old school, not just to the shop. An said maybe the sender wanted them to find a classroom where Khai used to teach. On the way home, they decided to ask Ms. Thao for a transfer certificate to her old school before someone moved the warehouse.

Chau and An brought the drawing to the school's backyard, where the cement floor had old basketball lines. Ngoc spread out the paper, Khoa held the four corners with four buttons. The wind flipped the second page and the daisy flew away. Khoa ran after him, tripped over a potted plant, and then declared it was an insurance fee for the investigation.

An used a tape measure to measure the distance between the school wall and the shop wall. He did not pull the ruler too tight, making Chau angry. He explained that if you pull hard, the fabric will stretch; A ruler is also a fabric that can lie if the person measuring is impatient.

They asked the school security guard about the old path. I remember there was a wooden door that used to be open every Tuesday, but after the backyard was repaired, the door was closed with bricks. I still remember that Khai often carried two boxes of cloth passing by, while Thanh pushed a bicycle carrying machinery. The two of them did not argue in front of others; If they argue, they will stand a door's width apart.

Chau recorded the story and asked for permission to sign the book. He asked her if she needed her full name. She said she only needed her name and year of employment, no address needed. He nodded, then handed over an old key that couldn't open any doors.

“Khai told me to keep it,” he said. “He said one day the passage will reopen.”

An Tried inserting the key into the shop's old lock, but it didn't match. Mrs. Van looked at the key and said it used to open the electrical box on the east wall. The electrical box has been removed, but the tile floor still has a border.

Khoa took a marker and Ngoc reminded him not to draw on the wall. He used chalk, but misspelled the word "mold" to "hook". Chau said that is also suitable for a tailor shop, as long as someone hooks it in the right place.

In the afternoon, a group of curious students came to ask if they were looking for treasure. Chau said they were looking for one meter of land. One person said that one meter of land is not equal to a phone. An replied that if that one meter was the way home, it could not be compared.

The answer was captured. Chau was a bit shy, but Ms. Thao said it was okay if it was placed in the right context. She instructed the group to write a clear notice: they were checking for mold, not accusing anyone, and not calling for trouble.

That night, Chau read the drawing under the desk lamp. The purple lines are irregularly spaced. She took old fabric, cut it into four-foot strips, and placed them on paper. The fabric strip goes through the shop, the wall and the path leading to the school. It is not the land that was taken; it is the land people are used to using.

An texted that his father found a box under the old car. In the box there is a receipt for sending items from Cau Nam station, the date matches the bus ticket in the skirt. He asked Chau if he dared to go with him.

“I don't dare,” Chau replied.

“So you're still going?”

"Yes. Dare or not is another matter."

The next morning, they arrived at the station. The old ticket seller recognized Khai's name and said he usually buys tickets on Tuesday afternoons, sits in a seat near the window and carries a blue jacket. He once asked if a person could leave with the door open.

Chau looked at the purple cloth and understood that the sender knew they would find the station. But on the ticket background, there is a new mark in red ink.

That sign points toward the alley, not toward the tracks.

Measurements recorded in purple ink

Chau brought the cloth to class in a paper bag, as if she were transporting a fragile animal. An saw it before Ngoc. He didn't ask to borrow it, just pulled the chair closer.

“Did you leave anything else behind last night?”

“A pair of shoes ran through the door.”

“What color?”

"Black."

“Very helpful.”

"Thank."

Ngoc stepped between the two and grabbed the piece of cloth. She looked at the embroidery, took a ruler to measure the stitch length and took a photo. Khoa immediately said that this photo must have good lighting, but Ngoc said that if he filmed her face one more time, she would use the camera as a coat hanger.

“M.V.K could be the name of the shop,” Ngoc said. "Or the person's name. Or the product code."

“The product code doesn't say 'don't let it go',” Chau replied.

“There are very tragic product codes.”

An took the measurement paper from his pencil case. He took a photo before handing over the shirt. The purple ink on the shoulder line is overlapped by another line, like a number but not a number. Ngoc enlarges the photo. Under the phone's light, the ink line forms a rectangle with a dot in the corner.

Khoa looked at it for a while and said it looked like a treasure map. Ngoc said that if the treasure was in the school, it would probably be the cake box in the teacher's room. Chau did not laugh. She recognized the rectangle as the floor plan of a tailor shop: door to the west, sewing machine to the north, drawers under the table in the east corner.

“The east wall,” she said.

An turned. “You saw it too?”

"In the piece of paper there is a line missing one meter. Grandma's shop is only one meter short compared to the old drawing."

After class, the whole group went down to the store. Mrs. Van was not there; she went to the restaurant neighbors get fabric. Chau opened the old sewing book and found pages with measurements written in purple ink. There are dozens of names, but at the top of the page there is always a line that is not a measurement: **Tuesday — back door — three feet.**

An stood next to him, not touching the book.

“Did Aunt Van show you?”

“No. But I was assigned to keep the warehouse key.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Stand here so you don't do anything dangerous alone.”

“I just read the book.”

“You read the book like someone who's about to tear down a wall.”

Chau turned to look at him. An tilted his head, his voice was still steady but the corners of his mouth curled up. She realized he was not a cold person; You just save your emotions like you save every meter of fabric.

They measured the east wall with Mrs. Van's tape measure. From the base of the wall to the back door frame is four meters twelve. In the old drawing at the end of the book, the number says four meters ninety-eight. The difference is exactly one meter and fourteen, not one meter.

“Maybe the drawing is wrong,” An said.

“Or the wall is pushed in.”

“The wall cannot move on its own.”

“Builders can push.”

Khoa turned and backed away, hitting the coat rack. A dress fell on his head. Ngoc tried not to laugh, but laughed the loudest. Chau picked up the dress and discovered that there was purple thread on the back of the skirt. She removed two stitches and a piece of bus ticket fell out.

The back of the ticket has a stamp dated ten years ago. The destination line was obscured by ink, but the terminal name was still readable: **South Bridge**.

Mrs. Van arrived at the door just as Chau was holding the ticket. She didn't ask what they were looking for. She just looked at the purple cloth on the table, then went straight to the east wall. She placed her hand on the peeling paint and knocked three times.

“No one can remove this wall,” she said.

An looked at Chau. “Because what's behind it?”

Mrs. Van returned. “Because there is an unfinished promise behind it.”

That night, Chau turned on his phone and searched for an old map of the neighborhood. Nam Bridge has been renamed, but the alley at the end of the store still shows an unusual outline. There is a section of wall that runs straight into the schoolyard, as if someone had drawn a meter wrongly and then intentionally left it intact.

Message from unknown number arrived at 11:17 p.m.: **If you want to keep the store, don't trust the new measurements. Tomorrow they will put up stakes.**