Chapter 21 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Three days before the final night, Bao Quoc asked permission to come to the auditorium again, this time not to observe or learn, but to bring something he had been wanting to share for many weeks. He arrived earlier than practice time, holding a small wooden box containing his mother's mementos.

"I have something to tell you, if it's okay," he said, his voice hesitant as he stood before the curiously waiting choir.

Ms. Nguyet nodded, signaling him to come forward, her eyes full of encouragement for the man who dared to change a business decision for people he had never known before. Bao Quoc opened the wooden box, took out a black and white photo that had yellowed over time, and held it up for everyone to see.

“This is my mother,” he said, his voice shaking slightly with emotion. "She died ten years ago. This photo shows her with a singing group in this very hall, long before most of you here joined the choir."

The whole hall was silent, many curious eyes focused on the old photo. Mrs. Ca Yen, the oldest person in the group, reached out to receive the photo, squinted her eyes and looked carefully, then suddenly, her face lit up.

“Oh my God,” she said, her voice shaking. "This is Ms. Hoai! Trinh Thi Hoai! I remember her, we used to sing together when I was young, before Ms. Nguyet was born. She has a very good voice, but unfortunately her circumstances were difficult so she had to stop singing early to work to raise her children."

When Bao Quoc heard those words, he couldn't hold back his emotions, his eyes turned red. "You know my mother?"

"I know," Mrs. Yen replied, holding his hand with her wrinkled one. "She was one of the first people to build this singing group, before it became the Dawn Choir as it is now. If it weren't for people like her who laid the foundation from the early days, perhaps we wouldn't have this place to continue today."

Mrs. Ca Yen continued to tell, her voice slow, as if she were going through each page of memories covered with dust over time. "At that time, we were just a few women in the neighborhood, gathering to sing to relieve ourselves after hours of hard work. There were no proper musical instruments like now, just an old guitar and each other's voices. Ms. Hoai sang very well, her voice was clear, every time she raised her voice, the whole neighborhood stopped working to listen. But then her husband passed away early, she had to raise a small child alone, had to take on sewing and weaving to make a living, and gradually she no longer had time to go to sing again. I remember the last night she came, she told us she had to take a break, but that 'break' turned out to last forever."

Bao Quoc listened, each word of Mrs. Ca Yen seemed to fill in the gaps in the vague memories he had about his mother. "I always wondered why my mother could sing me to sleep so well, even though she had never been formally trained," he said, his voice shaking. "Now I understand, it's because she had a whole youth devoted to music, before life forced her to put it aside."

"She never really gave up," Mrs. Chin Thoa interjected, her voice equally choked. "People only temporarily put aside their passion because of circumstances, but the love for it is never lost. Perhaps that is also the reason her son, no matter how busy he is in business, eventually found his way back to this place."

Bao Quoc stood still, tears rolling down the face of the man who always remained calm and professional at work. "I don't know much about her years," he said, his voice choking. "She rarely talks about the past, perhaps because her difficult life makes her reluctant to recall it, or perhaps because recalling it would make her more heartbroken than happy. I only know that she once mentioned 'the old hall' with regret, but I never fully understood the meaning of that, until I accidentally walked in here a few months ago."

Ms. Nguyet walked over, put her hand on his shoulder, her voice was gentle. "So today, you heard that story, from the people who accompanied your mother. I think it's not a coincidence, but somehow, your mother led you back here, right when this place needed you the most."

The entire hall fell silent in a deeply emotional moment, as the story of the past and present, of two generations of women who found solace in music in the same place, blended together into an invisible but strong bond.

"I want to suggest something," Bao Quoc said, after calming down. "When the renovation of the cultural house is completed, I want to place a small plaque in the main hall, recording the history of this place, and dedicate a corner to commemorate those who laid the first foundation, including my mother and her friends. I think that is the best way for future generations to understand the true value of the place where they are standing."

The whole hall was silent for a moment before gentle applause rang out, not as loud as the previous celebrations, but quiet and solemn, true to the weight of the story that had just been told. That proposal received enthusiastic agreement from the whole group, and in that emotional atmosphere, Mr. Tam Loc, always the person who brought laughter to every situation, spoke up to break the heavy solemnity. "So we are not only fighting for the present, but also continuing a story that began a long time ago. It's something to be proud of, isn't it everyone?"

Relieved laughter rang out, mixed with tears that had not yet dried, and that day's rehearsal, although it started later than usual because of that emotional story, took place with a special spirit - as if each voice sang not only represented the present, but also carried echoes of the past, of women who found the meaning of their lives in the same hall, half a century apart but still connected by the same love for music and community.

After the practice session, when everyone had left, Ha Uyen lingered with her father, both standing silently in front of the old bulletin board where the release notice had once been posted. "I'm proud of you, Dad," she said, resting her head on his shoulder, her voice trembling slightly with emotion still unresolved from the story she had just told. "Not only because Dad saved this place, but because he found a part of his own family's story."

"I have to thank you too," Bao Quoc replied, wrapping his arms around his daughter. "If it weren't for you, I probably would never have stepped foot here, and I would never have found this precious thing that I lost a long time ago."

Meanwhile, Thu An, standing not far away, observed the scene of father and son Bao Quoc and Ha Uyen with complicated emotions. She thought about her mother, about her father's diary, about what she had told her on that tearful Sunday morning — about her lost child, about the fear that had made her cling to music like a lifeline. She realized that Ba Nguyet's story and Trinh Thi Hoai's story, although different in circumstances, revolved around the same common thread - the women found in music a place to heal the wounds left by life, and their children, even though they once complained, even though they did not understand, eventually found their way back to understanding.

She walked to her mother, who was standing silently looking at the old photo of Trinh Thi Hoai that Bao Quoc left on the table. "Do you think," Thu An asked softly, "if you had met Mrs. Hoai in the past, the two of you could have become close friends?"

Mrs. Nguyet smiled, a smile that was both sad and warm. "I think that's definitely the case. Women who find themselves in music, no matter what era, understand each other in a very unique way, without needing to say it out loud."

Mother and daughter stood silently together for a long time, looking out the window where the last sunset was dyeing the sky, feeling more deeply than ever the invisible thread connecting the past, present, and what still awaits in the future, all originating from a small hall but containing so many stories of the lives that have passed through here, stories that Thu An now knows she has also become a part of, no longer an outsider. as she thought about herself during all those years of separation.