Chapter 1 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

At seven o'clock on Tuesday night, the fluorescent lights in the second floor hall of the Phuong Vu Cultural House shone down on twenty-three silver heads bending over photocopied sheet music with frayed corners. The familiar musty smell of old bricks mixed with the smell of green oil someone had just rubbed on her temples, the smell of artichoke tea in a thermos placed on the corner of the table, all combined into a smell that Doan Thi Nguyet could recognize even with her eyes closed. She had smelled that scent for twenty years, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night, as regularly as a second heartbeat beating in parallel with her own.

"From bar twenty-four," she said, her voice still bright even at the age of seventy-two. "Sopranos, you guys play half a beat slower than Uncle Kha's piano. Let's sing again from the beginning of the chorus."

Mr. Vu Dinh Kha sat next to the old piano against the wall, his thin fingers resting on the keys. He didn't need to look at the music, after nearly twenty years of accompanying this choir, the notes were already at his fingertips like an unforgettable habit. He glanced at Ba Nguyet once, very quickly, then bent down to the keys. No one in the hall noticed that look, except for Mrs. Chin Thoa sitting in the second row, who always noticed everything.

"One, two, three, four—"

The commanding wand in Ba Nguyet's hand was waved. And that's when it happened.

Not a dramatic fall like in the movies. Just a slight tremble, almost insignificant, in her right wrist, right at the moment she raised her command wand to the highest point to signal entry to the raft. The thin wooden chopstick deviated at a small angle, hit the music stand, and fell to the tile floor with a dry "click" in the silence.

Twenty-three voices stopped at the same time.

"Sorry," Ms. Nguyet said, bending down to pick up the chopsticks. But when she bent down, her entire right arm suddenly trembled more intensely, uncontrollably, as if there was a weak electric current running from her shoulder to her fingertips. She struggled, one hand leaning on the iron music stand, the music stand tilted, and she sat down on the floor, not exactly falling, but enough to make the whole hall stand up.

"Sister Nguyet!"

Mr. Tam Loc was the first to run, although his steps were no longer agile. He knelt down on one knee next to her, his deep voice trembling with worry, not age. "Are you okay? Do you hurt anywhere?"

"I'm OK." Mrs. Nguyet tried to force a smile, but her right hand was still shaking, shaking so much that she had to hold it tightly with her left hand, pressing it against her thigh as if doing so could stop the trembling. "It's just a slip, the floor is slippery."

But Ms. Chin Thoa, who had sat next to Ms. Nguyet during many training sessions, who had noticed three weeks ago that the commander's right hand had been shaking when holding a cup of tea lately, did not believe that explanation. She stood still, looking at her hand, which was still shaking slightly under her tightly held left palm, and a premonition arose in her heart that she did not want to say in public.

Mrs. Ca Yen, sitting in a wheelchair in the front row because her legs were too weak to stand, rolled her wheelchair closer. At eighty-five, she was the oldest member of the choir, her deep contralto voice had silenced the entire auditorium during performances twenty years ago. She didn't say anything, just reached out her wrinkled hand, grabbed Ba Nguyet's trembling hand, holding it still in her palm like someone holding a panicked baby bird.

"Let me call a taxi to take you to the doctor," Mr. Ba Nghia spoke up, his voice still had something of that of an old cyclo driver, always ready to take someone somewhere. "General Hospital is ten minutes away."

"No need, really I—"

"Sister Nguyet." Mr. Kha stood up from the piano chair and for the first time during the rehearsal said something unrelated to music. His voice was small but firm, the kind of certainty of someone who has observed someone for a long time and can no longer pretend not to see anything. "How long have your hands been shaking like that?"

The whole hall was silent. Mrs. Nguyet looked at him, then looked around at the faces waiting for an answer - faces that had sung with her through many seasons, had practiced with her in this room when their children were young and now had grandchildren. She couldn't lie to them, even though she had been lying to herself for the past two months.

"About two months," she said quietly. "At first I only trembled when holding chopsticks to command for a long time, I thought it was muscle fatigue. But recently... holding chopsticks to eat, I also tremble, and even when I write."

"Then you have to go see a doctor right away," Ms. Chin Thoa said, her voice no longer filled with her usual curiosity but with the determination of an old friend. "You can't hide this from us anymore."

Practice that night ended earlier than usual. When everyone left, folding up music books, wearing woolen hats, and putting on warm clothes because it was windy in late autumn, Mr. Kha stayed behind to help Ms. Nguyet clean up the fallen music rack. He picked up the wooden command wand, wiped the dust off it with the hem of his shirt, and then gave it back to her with both hands, as if giving something precious.

"You promise me," he said, "you'll go to the doctor tomorrow morning."

"Mr. Kha," Mrs. Nguyet took the chopstick, her fingers gently squeezing around it. "You know me. I'm more afraid of the doctor saying something I don't want to hear than I'm afraid of this shaking hand."

"I know." Mr. Kha nodded, his eyes lingered on her face a little longer than necessary, then he turned away, pretending to be busy rearranging the plastic chairs into neat rows along the wall, as he had done for nearly twenty years, silently, without asking for anything. "But I also know that you are someone who never lets fear get in your way for more than one night."

Ms. Nguyet walked out of the hall last, turned off the lights, and locked the door as usual. Outside in the hallway, the last moonlight of the month shined through the broken window in one corner, shining on an old bulletin board covered with yellowed papers - practice schedule, member list, a photo of the entire choir fifteen years ago in white uniforms, all much younger than now.

And right next to that board, a new piece of paper, still straight, still smelling of ink, was pasted over the corner of the old photo. Mrs. Nguyet looked up to read, the moonlight was not bright enough so she had to tilt her head and squint closer.

"ANNOUNCEMENT. Regarding the recovery and site clearance of Phuong Vu Cultural House to implement the Commercial - Service Complex Project. It is requested that units and organizations that are using the facilities complete the relocation before..."

She stopped reading that, her grip on the wand tightened, and this time, the tremor in her wrist was no longer the only thing keeping her fingers still.

That night, when she returned to her small apartment on the third floor of an old apartment building about two kilometers from the cultural house, Ms. Nguyet sat alone in the living room, without turning on the lights, only the yellow light coming in from the street lamp outside the window. On the wooden shelf opposite, an old photo frame sat next to a vase of withered chrysanthemums — a photo of her and her husband, Doan Minh Vu, during a performance twenty years ago, both smiling, he standing behind her, his hands gently placed on her shoulders as if sharing some happy secret that only they knew.

He has been dead for fifteen years. Heart disease, suddenly, in the middle of a rainy night. And that very evening, when her daughter - Thu An, then only fifteen years old - called sobbing to inform her that her father was in emergency, Ba Nguyet was still standing on the stage of a community performance, her commanding wand raised to receive the final round of applause, her phone on silent mode in her bag behind the scenes.

She arrived at the hospital forty minutes late. Late enough to not hear her husband's last words. Late enough that Thu An, standing alone by the hospital bed during those forty minutes, learned a lesson she will never forget: that there are things her mother values more than family.

Fifteen years have passed since that night. Thu An is now forty years old, lives alone in another city, works as an auditor for a large company, and only calls home exactly three times a year - for her mother's birthday, New Year, and the anniversary of her father's death. Not more. No less than.

Mrs. Nguyet picked up the phone, her trembling fingers scrolled to find her daughter's number in her contacts. She had intended to call countless times in the past two months, since the first tremor appeared, but every time, her finger stopped right before pressing call.

Tonight, with the release notice still haunting her mind, with the tremors in her hands becoming more and more evident, with a vague fear that perhaps she didn't have much time left to fix what was wrong, Ms. Nguyet pressed the call button.

The bell rings three times. Then Thu An's voice rang out, dry, as usual.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

Ms. Nguyet took a deep breath. She had rehearsed this sentence in her head countless times throughout the evening, but when she opened her mouth, all the prepared words disappeared, leaving only the bare truth.

“I need you home,” she said. "Just for a while. Mom... she's sick, and maybe she's about to lose the cultural house where she's been teaching singing for so many years."

The other end of the line was silent for a long time, so long that Mrs. Nguyet thought her daughter had hung up. Then finally, Thu An's voice rang out, no longer as dry as before, but carrying a certain tone that Mrs. Nguyet couldn't name - perhaps fatigue, perhaps a little something similar to the worry that her daughter had tried to hide for the past twenty-five years.

"I'll arrange to come home at the weekend."

The call ended. Mrs. Nguyet sat quietly in the dark, her right hand still shaking slightly on her thigh, her eyes looking out the window where the yellow streetlight still shone in as steadily as it had on so many other lonely nights. She didn't know whether the decision to call tonight was right or wrong, she didn't know whether her daughter's return would bring healing or just reopen old wounds that had never fully healed.

But she knew one thing: the commanding wand in her hand, the wand that had led so many concerts for twenty years, was now trembling with a rhythm that even she could no longer control. And perhaps, it's time for her to learn to let go, to let others - including her daughter - step in and keep that rhythm for her, before everything, both the music and time, slips away from her trembling fingers forever.