Chapter 20 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Ms. Nguyet was discharged from the hospital after three days of observation, returning home with a small bandage on her forehead and a more determined spirit than ever, even though her body was still weak. Doctor Phuc, although not completely agreeing with her decision to continue participating in the competition, also had to give in to that determination, only asking her to strictly comply with the rest and medication schedule, and minimize the intensity of her training in the remaining days before the final.

Ten days before the performance, Thu An started a special practice program for herself, under the direct guidance of her mother. Every morning, mother and daughter sat together, Ms. Nguyet explained every detail of basic conducting techniques — how to keep the rhythm, how to signal to the chorus, how to convey emotional nuances through each hand movement — while Thu An took careful notes, practicing continuously until she became proficient.

"You learn faster than I thought," Mrs. Nguyet commented one morning, when she saw her daughter performing in rhythm with a complicated piece of music that she had just instructed. "Perhaps you inherited more of my musical talent than you thought."

"I think I'm just trying my best for my mother," Thu An replied, but in her heart, a new feeling of connection with music, with the legacy that her mother had worked so hard to build, was gradually forming, completely different from the strangeness and even hatred she had for it throughout her childhood.

At the group practice session, Ms. Nguyet still stood on the command podium as usual, but this time, Thu An stood right next to her, a new position added to the performance lineup that no one in the group felt strange or opposed, only absolute support and trust.

"If my mother shows any unusual signs," Thu An explained to the group during her first official rehearsal on the podium, "I will take over immediately. Everyone just needs to continue singing according to the practiced rhythm, don't panic, I will make sure the performance continues smoothly."

The group nodded, believing in the plan, and the rehearsal took place with a stronger spirit of solidarity than ever — no longer the rehearsal of a simple choir, but the rehearsal of a large family preparing together for the most important moment in their journey together.

Mr. Kha also adjusted his accompaniment, adding small interludes that could last more flexibly, in case a few extra seconds were needed for Thu An to promptly take over if something went wrong. He practiced with Thu An privately for a few afternoons, teaching her how to read small signals from the sound of the piano to know exactly where the music was, even without looking at the music.

"You have talent," he commented after a private practice session, looking at Thu An with respectful eyes. "Not only musical talent, but also the calmness necessary to stand on a big stage. Not everyone has that, even those who are well-trained."

"I'm just trying for my mother, Uncle Kha," Thu An replied, but in her heart, a small pride silently sparked at that compliment.

"Sometimes, love is the strongest motivation," Mr. Kha said, smiling. "Your mother is lucky to have a daughter like you, even though she probably never says it enough."

***

Four days before the final night, Viet Long posted a fourth article, summarizing the choir's entire journey — from the risk of clearance, to the fight to regain the cultural house, to the health difficulties that Ba Nguyet is facing. The article, titled "The Commander is Never Alone," quickly became one of the most shared articles on social media platforms that week, attracting widespread public interest in the upcoming finale.

Many local television stations contacted them for interviews, many volunteer organizations offered to support the choir in the future, and the number of tickets to attend the final night that the organizers allocated to Ba Nguyet's team was quickly booked, far exceeding initial expectations.

"We're about to have an auditorium full of supporters," Ha Uyen announced to the group during the final rehearsal before the show, her voice filled with excitement. "Each member's family, friends, neighbors, even many strangers who just read the article wanted to come see it."

That news both brought excitement and added pressure to the whole group, especially to Ba Nguyet, who now not only had to face a panel of professional judges, but also the watching eyes of hundreds of people who were placing their trust and hope in their performance.

Bao Quoc also texted to confirm that he would be present at the final night, not as an honorary guest because the company partly sponsored the organization's expenses, but simply as an audience who wanted to witness firsthand the achievements of the people who changed his perspective on the true value behind business decisions. He also offered to invite a few reporters from larger newspapers to report, seeing this as the first positive media opportunity for the project restructuring plan that he is having to prove effective to the board of directors in the next six months.

"I didn't expect Dad to be so enthusiastic," Ha Uyen said over the phone, her voice both surprised and warm.

"Dad wants to make up for lost time," Bao Quoc replied, his voice sincere. "Not only with the choir, but also with you, Ha Uyen. I realized I missed out on so many important things in your life because I was absorbed in work."

That sentence made Ha Uyen choke up, and in that moment, she felt more clearly than ever that, although the journey ahead of her and her father still had many things to heal, they had begun to take the first steps on that path, a path that she never dared to hope would open just a few months ago.

The last night before the exam day, the whole group gathered in the hall one last time to try out the entire program. Ms. Nguyet stood on the command podium, Thu An stood next to her, and when the opening music of "Urban Memories" rang out, the whole hall seemed to calm down, each person felt the weight of this moment - not just an ordinary rehearsal, but a farewell to a difficult journey that had passed, and a welcome to a final challenge that was waiting ahead.

When the song ended, no one immediately applauded, only an emotional silence filled the hall, before Mrs. Ca Yen, from her wheelchair, sang an impromptu song, a familiar melody that the group had sung together countless times over the past twenty years — not to practice, but simply to express their love for music, for each other, for the journey that brought them here.

The whole group, without needing to tell each other, sang along in unison, and in that moment, under the familiar fluorescent lights of the hall that had witnessed their many ups and downs, no one thought about the judges, about the prize, or about the difficulties that lay ahead. They were simply singing, together, as they had been for twenty years, and as they hoped to continue to sing for many more, no matter what tomorrow brought.

When the impromptu song ended, Ms. Nguyet stepped down from the podium, went to each person, hugged each member one by one, from Mr. Tam Loc to Ms. Chin Thoa, from Mr. Ba Nghia to Ms. Ca Yen, whispering to each person a personal thank you for their contributions over the years. When it was Thu An's turn, she said nothing, just hugged her daughter tightly, letting her tears fall freely without holding back.

"No matter what happens tomorrow," Mrs. Nguyet whispered in her daughter's ear, "I want you to know, tonight, this moment, is one of the happiest moments of my life."

Thu An tightened her arms around her mother, unable to say a word, just letting her heart speak instead of words. Outside, through the broken window in a corner of the old hall, the first moonlight of the month gently shone down, as if quietly witnessing and blessing all that they had built together, and all that was waiting for them in the upcoming final night, a night that all of them, no matter how worried, knew they were ready to receive, together, as they had always done for the past twenty years.