Chapter 5 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Kieu Viet Long's article was published on Friday morning, in the newspaper's life section, accompanied by a photo of Ms. Nguyet standing on the command podium, her right hand shaking slightly, her command wand rising amid the fluorescent lights. The title of the article is simple: "People who are out of step, but have never given up." The article does not use harsh language, does not condemn anyone, just tells the story of each person in the choir in a sincere tone, letting readers feel it for themselves.

By noon, the article had been shared thousands of times on social networks. The comments below are filled with words of encouragement, readers' personal stories about their grandparents and parents, and many people express outrage at the fact that a commercial project can wipe out a community that has been together for twenty years without compensation or support.

Thu An read the article on her phone while sitting at the dining table. At the same time, her mother's phone continuously vibrated with messages and calls from old acquaintances and former students of Ba Nguyet from many years ago, all expressing their support.

"The article is really well written," Thu An commented, showing the phone to her mother. "This reporter has a heart."

Mrs. Nguyet read the article, her eyes turned red when she read the part about Mr. Ba Nghia and the singing coming from the window of Mrs. Ca Yen in the past. "He writes exactly as he sees it," she said softly. "But you know, one good article isn't enough to change the decisions of an entire corporation."

"I know," Thu An nodded, her voice becoming serious, the tone she used when presenting a plan in company meetings. "But it creates public opinion, and public opinion is the only thing I can take advantage of right now. I've learned more, and I think I need a more specific strategy than just waiting for the public's kindness."

Mrs. Nguyet looked at her daughter, surprised at the change in Thu An's attitude after just a few days. "What do you mean?"

"I have re-read the entire release notice document," Thu An said, opening a document she had printed out and marked many passages with a yellow highlighter pen. "In the seventh clause, it says, if the facility user can demonstrate the significant cultural - community value of the activities taking place at the site, the city's appraisal board can consider partial preservation or request the investor to adjust the plan. This clause is rarely applied, but it exists."

"So that means...?"

"That is, if the mother's choir can demonstrate its community value — for example, achieving some notable accomplishment, being officially recognized by a reputable organization — then there are grounds to apply for reconsideration." Thu An turned to another page in the document. "I found information about a competition called the Urban Singing Festival, held annually, this year's first prize comes with a grant to preserve community culture. If my mother's choir participates and wins, that will be the strongest evidence to submit to the appraisal board."

Ms. Nguyet was silent for a long time, her eyes looked down at the documents, then up at her daughter. There was something complicated in those eyes — both unexpected pride at her daughter's sharpness, and also anxiety when thinking about the possibility of implementing this plan.

"When does that festival take place?"

"About two months left."

"Two months." Ms. Nguyet repeated, her voice lowered. "You know my mother's current health condition. I'm not sure I'll be able to stand for another two months to lead the whole group practicing for such a big competition. Not to mention, my choir is full of old people, most of whom have never competed in anything other than small performances in the neighborhood."

"Then mom, let me help." Thu An said, and in her voice there was a determination that Mrs. Nguyet had never heard from her daughter for many years. "I'll take care of the logistics, paperwork, and contacting the organizers. You just need to focus on the music."

Mrs. Nguyet looked at her daughter, and in that moment, she realized that this was probably the first time in fifteen years that Thu An proactively offered to do something with her, for her, not because of family obligations or responsibilities, but because of a certain sympathy that was gradually arising in her daughter's heart that Thu An herself had not yet fully realized.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice choked. "But I need to ask the group's opinion first. This is not my decision alone."

***

Saturday night's practice session, Ms. Nguyet presented the plan to the whole choir, with Thu An standing next to her to help explain the legal details. Everyone's reactions were mixed — some were excited, some were worried, and a debate broke out in the middle of the hall.

"I think this is a good opportunity," Mr. Tam Loc spoke first, his voice filled with excitement. "What do we have to lose? If we don't do anything, we will definitely lose our cultural house. If we try, at least we have a chance."

"But competing on a big stage is not the same as singing in this familiar hall," Ms. Chin Thoa protested, her voice filled with worry. "We are all old people, many of us have never even stood on a real stage. If we fail the exam, wouldn't it cause us to lose even more face, and cause Ms. Nguyet's health to decline even more because of the pressure of training?"

"I agree with Mr. Tam." Mrs. Ca Yen spoke from the wheelchair, her voice was slow but steady. "I'm eighty-five years old, I don't have much time left to wait for other opportunities. If this is the last chance to keep this place, I want to try, even if I fail, I won't regret it."

The debate lasted nearly half an hour, with conflicting opinions mixed between fear of failure and the desire to fight for what you love. Finally, Ms. Nguyet raised her hand to signal silence, and the whole hall gradually quieted down.

"I understand everyone's concerns," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firmly. "I'm scared myself. I'm scared my hands will shake so much that I won't be able to hold the baton on the big stage. I'm scared my memory will betray me in the middle of the most important performance of my life. But I also know one thing — if we don't try, if we just sit here waiting for fate to decide for us, then the twenty years we've spent together building this place will end in silence, without a word of protest. I don't want it to end like that."

She stopped, looked around at the listening faces, then looked at Thu An standing next to her, and finally continued speaking in a more certain voice.

"I want us to try. Not because we're sure to win, but because we deserve to try our best, just once, before everything might be gone."

A silence covered the hall, then each clap rang out, slowly at first, then rising into a round of unanimous applause. Mr. Ba Nghia stood up and squeezed Ms. Ca Yen's hand. Ms. Chin Thoa, although there was still some worry in her eyes, also nodded in agreement. And Thu An, standing silently next to her mother, felt a strange feeling rising in her heart — not quite pride, not quite hope, but a vague connection to this group of old people, who were preparing to enter the final battle to keep what they cherished most.

Two months. That's all the time they have, to turn twenty-three imperfect voices, a conductor whose hands are shaking over time, and an old building on the verge of obliteration, into something powerful enough to change the fate of them all.

***

On the way home, sitting in the taxi, Thu An took out her phone and dialed the number to call the head of human resources at the company. She asked for two more months of unpaid leave, citing important family matters. On the other end of the line, the head of the department's voice was a bit surprised - Thu An was famous for being rarely absent, and rarely asked for long breaks - but finally agreed, telling her to keep in touch via email for some unfinished projects.

Hanging up the phone, Thu An let out a long breath, feeling both relieved and confused at the decision she had just made. Two months without salary, two months away from the familiar work routine, two months of devoting all her energy to a choir of elderly people that just a few days ago she had never even known. If it were a month ago, she probably would have laughed at the very thought.

"What did you just call?" Mrs. Nguyet asked, sitting next to her sister in the taxi, her eyes questioning.

"I would like to take two more months off," Thu An replied, not looking at her mother, her eyes still glued to the window where the streets were passing by. "Let's take care of this properly."

Mrs. Nguyet was silent for a moment, then she reached out her trembling hand, gently placed it on her daughter's hand, without saying anything more, but that handshake carried more than any thank you could express. Thu An did not pull her hand away like before, she left her mother's hand there, feeling the gentle trembling passing through her skin, and for the first time, she did not see that trembling as a sign of illness or of a mother who had missed important moments in her life. She only saw that it was her mother's hand, needing her, right now, more than ever.

The taxi continued to roll through the late night streets, carrying two women with an unspoken, unspoken pact — that despite the many unhealed wounds of the past, they would walk through the next two months together, fighting together for something greater than old grievances.