Chapter 22 — The End-of-Day Train

In the days that followed, Khanh Chi cowered, avoiding Thien An whenever possible. She still got to her shift on time and completed her work thoughtfully as always, but when he got on the last train of the day as usual, she only gave a brief, polite greeting, then quickly found an excuse to move to another car, avoiding lengthy conversations.

Thien An did not force her, just quietly respected the distance she needed, although every time he looked at her, his eyes were filled with pain and anticipation that was hard to hide, his shoulders seemed to be much heavier than the confident, energetic appearance of the previous days of campaign preparation. He continued to prepare for the hearing, sending emails to discuss work with her through Boi Linh or Y Van instead of directly, an implicit arrangement that the whole group, even though no one said it, noticed and respected.

"I think you two are strange lately," Boi Linh whispered to Khanh Chi one night, when the two of them were editing some documents together at a coffee shop. "What happened, Miss Chi?"

"It's nothing, it's just an adult matter," Khanh Chi replied, trying to force a smile, but Boi Linh, even at a young age, was still sensitive enough to realize that there was something wrong between the two of them and she secretly hoped they would get together.

Y Van, with the intimacy of a long-time friend, did not hesitate to ask directly when having a private opportunity with Khanh Chi. "Tell me, why are you two arguing so intensely? I can see that An is clearly sad these days."

Khanh Chi told her best friend the whole story, her voice choked up and she couldn't hide it. Y Van listened attentively, without interrupting. When Khanh Chi finished speaking, she sighed and held her friend's hand.

"I understand how you feel," Y Van said, her voice gentle. "But honey, I think you should calm down and look at things more thoroughly. An couldn't choose who his father was. He is also a victim of this whole story, just like you. What he did wrong was just not having the courage to say it sooner, and that, I think, was also because he loved you so much and was afraid of losing you."

Khanh Chi was silent, Y Van's words were like a small needle pricking her rational mind that was trying to overwhelm her emotions, but she was still not ready to completely let go of the hurt she was carrying in her heart.

On nights when he couldn't sleep, Khanh Chi would take out his father's diary and read it again, looking for some comfort from the familiar words. She read and re-read the paragraph he wrote about Uncle Thang, about the two people's shared worries about ignored warnings, and she realized that, in those words, there was not the slightest bit of resentment towards the signal guard colleague. On the contrary, her father seemed worried and concerned about Uncle Thang's own safety as much as he worried about the passengers on the train. If her father, who directly suffered the heaviest consequences, did not even complain, then what right did she have to keep resentment in her heart towards that colleague's son?

That question kept lingering in Khanh Chi's mind for many days, but she still did not have the courage to proactively find Thien An, partly because the pain of the concealment was still there, partly because she was afraid that if she met him again too soon, she would not be alert enough to say what needed to be said clearly and thoroughly.

One afternoon, when she no longer knew who to confide in, Khanh Chi decided to go to Mr. Canh's house, whom she trusted like a grandfather in the family, hoping to find advice from his extensive life experience.

Mr. Canh welcomed her into his house, poured her a cup of hot tea as was his habit every time he welcomed guests, and immediately recognized the tired and sad look on the face of his niece, whom he had always considered his own descendant. After listening to Khanh Chi tell everything, he sat quietly for a long time, his old eyes looking far into the small yard in front of the house.

"You know," he began, his voice low and slow, "I'm the only person alive who was at the signal station that night, besides Uncle Thang."

Khanh Chi looked up, not expecting Mr. Canh to be a direct witness that she had never known.

"I didn't directly witness the moment the accident happened," he explained, "but that night, as the station chief, I received a phone call from Mr. Thang reporting a crack in the slope just a few hours before the accident happened - the third report that week, not just two as you heard. I immediately called the company, asking to send someone down to do an emergency inspection, but the person on duty up there told me that I would have to wait until the next morning to make arrangements. force, because the technical team is busy solving the problem in another section."

"So you know it's not Uncle Thang's fault?" Khanh Chi asked, her voice shaking.

"You know better than anyone," Mr. Canh replied, his voice full of remorse. "After the accident, I tried to explain to the investigation team about those reporting calls, but the company's call recording records, for unknown reasons, were no longer fully preserved. Only my testimony remains, and the testimony of a small station chief has little weight under the company's pressure to quickly close the case."

Khanh Chi felt a new anger welling up in his heart, not directed at Thien An or his father anymore, but at the system that easily trampled on the fate of small people to protect its own interests.

"I remember that night very clearly," Mr. Canh continued, his voice as if he was reliving every painful moment. "After the accident happened, Uncle Thang ran to his guard station, his body was soaked, his hands were shaking, he kept repeating that he had tried his best, he had run along the tracks for several hundred meters to give a warning signal with a hand-held light, but the distance was too close, the train could not stop completely. He blamed himself all that night, even though he tried to console himself that without his actions, perhaps the casualties would have been much greater."

"So why did the company still decide to blame Uncle Thang entirely?" Khanh Chi asked, her voice still shaking with anger.

"Because blaming an individual is always easier and cheaper than admitting systemic mistakes, son," Mr. Canh replied, his voice full of bitterness. "If the company admits to ignoring landslide warning reports many times, they will face legal liability, have to pay compensation, and have to reform the entire maintenance process on other routes as well. Blaming a low-level signal guard is much simpler, just a disciplinary decision is needed and the matter will be over, and public opinion will quickly calm down."

"I'm sorry, son, for being silent for the past twelve years," Mr. Canh said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I was afraid that if I spoke up, the company would find a way to suppress me, cut my pension, or worse, hold me responsible for not closely monitoring the team under me. I chose my own safety, instead of standing up to protect the truth for an innocent colleague."

Khanh Chi held the old man's hand, tears in her eyes. "You don't need to apologize to me. I understand, everyone has their own fears. But now, I think it's time for the truth to be told, fully and publicly, at the upcoming hearing."

Mr. Canh looked at her, his eyes shining with a new determination. "You're right. I've been silent long enough. This time, I will testify, no matter what consequences I face."

Before Khanh Chi left, Mr. Canh called her over and rummaged through an old drawer for a set of yellowed papers. "Here are a few pages that I jotted down myself right after the incident, in case you need them later," he said, handing the pad of paper to her with both hands, as if giving away a treasure he had kept for many years. "I think it's time for these pages to be used, instead of continuing to lie dormant in a drawer."

Khanh Chi took the pad of paper, feeling its weight not only from the thin sheets of paper, but from twelve years of silence, waiting to witness the day justice was served.

Khanh Chi left Mr. Canh's house late at night, her heart carrying a complicated feeling - both relief because she had finally found an important piece of the truth, and pain when she realized the level of injustice that both families had suffered for the past twelve years, just because of the indifference and cold calculation of people far away, who had never once set foot on this last train of the day.