Chapter 6 — The Code in the Tangerine Garden

The key to the breeding room turned half a turn and stopped.

Lam inserted the key again. The lock does not rust; There's something blocking it from inside. He leaned closer to look through the crack in the door, but it was dark inside. Thu snatched the flashlight from Quan's hand and shined it on the floor. A new streak of dust dragged in from the foot of the door, as if someone had just placed a heavy object close to the threshold.

“Step back,” Quan said.

He used his shoulder to push the door. The blocker inside slid, making a crashing sound. The door opened, the smell of damp paper and dried tangerine peel wafted out. The breeding room is smaller than Thu remember. On the shelves were boxes of expired seeds, on the ground were two wooden trays, and the table in the middle of the room was covered with a tarp.

There are no people.

Lam walked around the room. The tarp on the table was pulled aside, revealing an old tape recorder. He lifted it up and tried pressing it. The device does not have a battery. Next to the machine is an empty envelope with the words "Last page" written on the side.

Quan opened wooden boxes. In the third box, he found a similar notebook, blue cover, but the middle seven pages had been torn.

“Someone came before us,” Thu said.

“Or father tore it,” Lam replied.

Thu turned around. “Are you defending him or defending yourself?”

Lam did not answer. He looked down at the table. Beneath the canvas there was a new arc-shaped scratch. If the tape recorder was ever there, the person who took it pulled it toward him, not lifted it straight up. On the floor there was still a grain of red soil, a soil color not found in the room.

“The window is open,” he said.

Quan climbed onto the chair to check. The door frame was slightly pried, the paint peeling off the latch. Outside is a low corrugated iron roof connected to the seed warehouse. People without a key can still enter that way.

Thu discovered a piece of paper stuck under the table leg. Only the bottom corner of a document remains, with the line "transferee" and a blurred signature. The stamp in the right corner is not a cadastral stamp but the stamp of a law office.

“Father, have you prepared the land sale papers?” Quan asked.

"Not sure yet. This could be old paper."

“Is there anyone's name?”

Thu held the paper up to the light. In the last line, she read the first two letters of a family name: "Nguyen V..."

Lam quietly put the recorder in his pocket.

Mail seen. “Give it here.”

“No battery.”

“I didn't ask if there was a battery or not.”

“This is what dad left me.”

"Father left it to the three of you. Since when do you have the right to keep it to yourself?"

Lam held the recorder tighter. “Ever since everyone saw me as just someone filming to show family stories to outsiders.”

Quan walked over. “What are you hiding?”

“I haven't heard.”

“Then open now.”

“Not here.”

Quan grabbed Lam's collar. Thu held his hand, but it was too late. The recorder fell to the floor, the battery cover popped off. There's no battery inside, just a microSD card wrapped in oiled paper.

All three were silent.

Lam picked up the card. “I didn't say anything.”

“How long have you had this card?” Thu asked.

“Since the day dad gave me the phone.”

“He gave it to you before he died?”

"YES."

“And you didn't say?”

“He said it would only open when all three were present.”

“We are present.”

Lam looked at the empty room. “No. He said it was in a place where no one was listening.”

At that moment, Thu's phone vibrated. A text message from the bank reported a request to look up the land use right certificate using her father's file code. The claimant is not the heir. The search time was yesterday morning, right after the packaging house camera lost power.

Thu gave the screen to everyone.

“Someone used my father's papers.”

Quan let go of his neck Lam shirt. “Were you in this room last night?”

Lam did not speak.

His silence became the answer in Quan's eyes.

“You took the original?”

"Are not."

“So how did you know there was a tape recorder in here?”

“Father told me.”

“Father tells you everything, but we don't?”

Lam walked out of the room. “Believe whatever you want.”

Thu ran after her, but Lam had already gone towards the packing house. She saw his hand still holding the device tightly. Just a second later, Lam disappeared behind the tangerine row to the west.

At noon, a commune official came to check after Ms. Man reported there were signs of forced entry on the door. He noted the lock, took a photo of the door frame and asked if the family had lost anything. The letter said it could not be counted yet. Officials remind that if you have land documents, you must keep them in a safe place, not in the garden.

After he left, the Army took down the drawers.

“The certificate is no longer available,” he said.

Mail stopped. “Where did you see it?”

"In the safe. Dad usually keeps the originals under a stack of tax books."

“Are you sure?”

“I've seen it many times.”

Lam returned at dusk. He placed the recorder on the table, next to another memory card.

“I didn't take the paper.”

Quan smiled faintly. “Who knows.”

Lam looked at Thu. "I took this card from my father's camera. He recorded directly on it. The recorder is the shell."

Mail does not accept cards. “Open it.”

Lam plugged the card into the laptop. A video appears. Dad sat in front of the tank, with the packing house wall behind him. He spoke to the camera not as a message but as if declaring:

"On August 17, the Huy family sold the land adjacent to the ditch to Dong Phong Company. The contract did not record water rights. I kept the old agreement to protect them when needed."

Quan looked at Lam. “When did Huy sell?”

The video changes to dad flipping through a stack of papers. His face contorted in pain, but his voice remained clear:

"If one day the buyer asks, I will say that the water line is not included in the sale. If they force it, the six families must speak up together. Don't let one person sign for six people."

The image vibrates strongly, then turns off.

Lam opens the audio file. Father's voice echoed in the room:

"Lam, you often think that going back means keeping the truth. No, the camera only keeps the light and voice. Viewers still may not believe it. You have to keep the person who spoke."

Lam bowed his head.

"Dad told me not to film the last part because the last part has the names of living people. I have to ask them before showing it."

File stopped. Quan looked at his brother, his anger decreased but did not disappear.

Thu sat down. “What about the original certificate?”

Lam shook his head. “Dad didn't say.”

“Did you come in here last night?”

"Have."

Quan stood up. “See?”

"I came in to look for the memory card. My father texted me before he passed away, saying there was something in this room that no one should take. I don't know what it is."

“Then why don't you say it?”

“Because I can't find it.”

Thu realized that Lam was not completely lying. He hid the fact that he entered the room, but there was no reason enough to erase the mark on the door himself. When Lam gave her the recording, there was a detail in the frame reflected in the corner of the glass: the person behind the camera was wearing a jacket with a silver reflective strip.

“When is this?” Thu asked.

“The day father turned.”

“There is someone else at the corner of the door.”

They enlarge the picture. The figure appears in only two frames, standing next to the water valve. In his hand is a stack of papers. Reflective strips resemble survey protective vests that company employees often wear.

Huy texted back later: “Tran Khai is a suitable engineer copper. I have not confirmed the retrieval of the records.”

Thu called him directly. “If Khai comes into the garden, you must know.”

“I was asking.”

“Quick question. The original certificate is gone."

On the other end of the line, Huy was silent.

“I will come,” he said.

At night, they lock all the doors. Lam slept in the packing house, Quan kept watch at the well, Thu inventoried documents in the living room. Near midnight, the sound of rocks falling on the corrugated iron roof startled the whole house.

The letter ran out. On the roof is a black plastic box, inside there is a copy of the land use right certificate and a piece of paper:

“The original is not in the room. Ask the person holding the camera.”

Quan looked at Lam.

Lam stood under the circular tree, his face pale.

“I didn't take the original,” he said.

“But you know where it is,” Thu replied.

Lam looked towards the old well. “Maybe.”

Thu did not force him to speak immediately. She was so used to everyone in the house withholding partial information and then using silence as a shield. But this time, that wall was on a pipe that was being touched by someone else.

“Where did you see dad hide the original?” she asked.

“I saw him walking towards the well on the day the video was taken. But he did not hold the paper.”

“Do you have the key?”

Lam took out the recorder and removed the back cover. Inside the plastic layer is a piece of silver tape. He peeled it off, and underneath was a number written in pencil: 66.

Quan looked at the number. “Sixty-six steps from where?”

“There is no fruit from the tree,” Thu said.

They went to measure at night. Starting from the tree trunk, Quan's each step is marked with pebbles. The sixty-sixth step stopped at the edge of the packhouse wall, where a manhole cover was covered with leaves. There was no paper under the lid, just the smell of motor oil and a new red wire.

“The original has been transferred,” Lam said.

“You know who moved?”

"Are not."

Thu looked at him. “You can't just say maybe.”

Lam bent down over the manhole cover. “I'm afraid the person who moved is the one my father believes.”

“Huy?”

“Or Mrs. Man.”

Mrs. Man heard it and did not get angry. She just said that her father once gave her an envelope and said that if anyone asked, say he didn't have anything left. She burned the envelope without opening it, thinking it was a debt paper.

Quan turned. “Did you burn it?”

“Burn the shell. Do not burn paper.”

She went into the house and took out a small glass bottle, inside was a piece of scorched paper. The remaining letters are two words: "auxiliary cover".

Thu looked at the well. “There are two covers.”

Lam directed the light down to the background. A ring of bricks next to the well has newly filled seams. Quan used a chisel to knock, not breaking, just confirming the cavity was empty.

“Open tomorrow morning,” he said. “That's enough for tonight.”

But no one had time to return.

From underground, the water valve vibrated three times.