Chapter 2 — The Lantern That Never Goes Out

That day's meeting ended up with only a vague announcement - the Old Town Management Board is "considering some new cooperation options" to "improve the quality of the festival", nothing specific, no unit's name was mentioned. Mr. Doi Quang Minh talked in circles for half an hour, promising to have a more detailed meeting "as soon as possible", then ended the meeting amid the suspicious eyes of nearly twenty working households. Uyen Chi left with the feeling as if she had just swallowed a sip of tea that was not brewed enough - not completely bitter, but the aftertaste lingered in her throat, unpleasant without knowing how to name it.

That evening, after her father went upstairs to rest, Uyen Chi sat alone in the workshop, the small oil lamp placed next to the drawing table casting her long shadow on the wooden wall. She took out an old wooden box from the closet, inside were the light painting tools left by her grandmother - a few worn brushes, a few jars of mineral paint that had dried over the years, and a faded leather notebook that Uyen Chi had never had the courage to read. She turned the first few pages, and her grandmother's neat handwriting appeared, meticulously recording the color mixing ratio, how to choose bamboo according to the season, and the failed experiments before finding the glue formula that wouldn't stain silk.

"Grandma," she whispered softly, her fingers gliding over the yellowed page, "if it were you, what would you do now?"

There was no answer except the sound of insects chirping in the yard and the sound of river water gently lapping against the rocky shore not far away. Uyen Chi closed the notebook, put it in the box, then turned to the Cuu Lien model lamp - a miniature version left by her grandmother, solemnly hung in the corner of the workshop, not for sale, only for display when guests visit. Nine layers of interlocking lotus petals, from light pink like a teenage girl's cheeks on the outermost layer, to dark pink, almost crimson in the center of the lamp, each layer is meticulously hand-painted with leaf veins, no layer is the same but still harmonious like a piece of music with many parts.

Uyen Chi clearly remembers the story her grandmother once told, when she was little, sitting on her grandmother's lap and listening to stories every night before going to sleep. She said that the Cuu Lien lamp is not just a beautiful lamp, but a promise she made to herself — that no matter how cruel life is, she will still create something beautiful with her own hands, without needing to borrow from anyone. At that time, Uyen Chi was too young to understand the deep meaning of her words. She only remembered that her eyes when she said those words were a bit distant, as if she were looking at a sky very different from this small workshop.

The next morning, Van Nguyet factory was busy again as usual. A regular customer, Mrs. Ca Thin, owner of a large restaurant at the beginning of the street, stopped by to order twenty medium-sized round lights to hang along the restaurant's porch during the festival. Mrs. Thin is a long-time customer, every year she orders on this occasion, and every year she takes the time to sit down and drink tea and chat with Mr. Khoan like an old friend rather than a customer.

"This year, you booked earlier than usual," Mr. Khoan smiled, pouring tea for guests.

"Early to be sure, Mr. Khoan." Mrs. Thin took a sip of tea, her eyes scanning the lamps hanging on the wall. "But I heard the situation will change this year. I'm afraid it will be too late and I won't have time to have beautiful goods to hang."

"What do you hear?" Uyen Chi asked, still tying the string for a just-completed lamp.

Mrs. Thin lowered her voice, as if telling a shocking secret. "I heard some people from the Management Board whispering that there is a large company outside the city, something called Han Phat or something, that wants to sign a contract to provide decorative lights for the entire old town during this year's festival. I heard that the price is cheap, the designs are diverse, and there are LED lights of all colors, so there is no need to light candles for fear of fire. The Management Board is seriously considering it, because it both saves the budget and is safer."

The name "Han Phat" passed through Uyen Chi's ears like a sudden cold wind. She glanced at her father and saw that his hand holding the cup of tea slightly stopped midway, neither bringing it to his mouth nor putting it down, just keeping it like that for a few unusually long seconds.

"Do you know this company?" she asked when Mrs. Thin had left.

Mr. Khoan put down his teacup, looked out into the yard, and spoke unusually slowly. "I've heard that name a few times, a long time ago. When my mother was still alive, sometimes someone mentioned it, but my mother never said anything more. Every time it was mentioned, she would stay silent and move on to something else."

"So it has something to do with grandma?" Uyen Chi asked, curiosity and worry rising in her heart.

"I don't know," Mr. Khoan sighed, rubbing his trembling hands together as if trying to keep warm a memory that had long since cooled. "My mother is a secretive person. When she's unhappy, she usually keeps it to herself and doesn't share it with anyone, not even her own son. I only remember one time, when I was young, I heard her talking to Mr. Bay Tuyen in the yard. Her voice sounded very angry, mentioning a name called 'Vinh'. Then I asked, she just said it was an adult matter, children don't need to know."

The name "Vinh" made Uyen Chi shiver slightly, although she didn't understand why. There is some invisible thread, faint but persistent, connecting the past with the present, connecting grandmother's story with the looming threat out there. She wanted to ask more, but saw that her father's face had become tired, so she stopped and quietly stood up to make a new pot of tea.

In the afternoon, Uyen Chi brought a batch of completed lamps to the market to deliver to customers. By the way, he stopped by Mr. Bay Tuyen's house to pick up a bundle of newly split bamboo. Mr. Bay's house is located deep in a small alley, the front yard is filled with bundles of bamboo of all kinds, from small thorny bamboo used to make small lamp frames, to large fat bamboo used to make frames for large military lanterns. Mr. Bay is now over sixty-five years old, his hair is white but his hands are still agile, quickly splitting each slat smoothly like an artist playing the piano.

"Are you coming to get bamboo?" Mr. Bay asked, constantly splitting his hands.

"Yes, I came to get bamboo, but I also wanted to ask you something." Uyen Chi sat down on the stool next to him, watching the bamboo splitter for a moment before speaking. "Do you know Han Phat company? Besides... do you know anyone named Vinh, is it related to my grandmother?"

Mr. Bay's hands stopped halfway, the bamboo splitting knife stopped right in the middle of the slat, not yet completely separated. He looked up at Uyen Chi, his eyes flashed with something complicated - both surprised and as if he was pondering something.

"Who did you hear say that name?" he asked, his voice lowered.

"My father told me that when he was a child, he heard his grandmother mention that name and was very angry. Besides, today there are rumors that Han Phat company wants to win the contract for this year's festive lights." Uyen Chi looked straight into his eyes. "You know what's going on, right?"

Mr. Bay Tuyen put down the knife and let out a long sigh, as if he had just let go of a burden he had carried for many years. "That story is so old, my dear. So old that I don't remember all the details, just vaguely. But," he paused, looking around as if to make sure no one else was listening, "this is not my story to tell. If your grandmother wanted her children to know, she must have left something behind. Have you looked in her things?"

Mr. Bay's words were like a slightly opened door, just enough for Uyen Chi to see there was light inside, but not enough for her to step through. She nodded, thanked him, brought the new bundle of bamboo back to the workshop, her heart heavy with unanswered questions. On the way home, she passed by the riverbank, looking at the small boats anchored, the water's surface reflecting the sunset, dyeing the entire river orange. A few children were playing on the wharf, holding small homemade star lanterns made of colored paper, their crisp laughter echoing throughout the space.

That scene made Uyen Chi's heart suddenly soften. No matter what lies ahead, no matter what secrets are hidden in her grandmother's past, right now, Nguyet Giang old town is still beautiful, still warm, still a place she wants to spend her life preserving. She returned to the workshop when it was dark, lit the familiar oil lamp, sat at the drawing table, held a brush dipped in light pink, and began drawing the first lotus petals for a new lamp. The oil lamp light cast a warm halo on her face, and in that moment, she felt like her grandmother was sitting somewhere very close, watching her granddaughter's every stroke, quietly but trustingly.

Late at night, after completing the lamp, Uyen Chi did not immediately go to sleep but took out her grandmother's notebook and flipped through the following pages. Mostly it's technical notes, but occasionally a few short emotional lines are thrown in, hastily written like sighs pressed onto paper. On one page, she read the words: "Some things are lost not because someone stole them, but because I trusted them and gave them away without keeping any part for myself." Uyen Chi read that sentence over and over again, feeling like she was touching an old wound of her grandmother that she herself had never revealed. She closed the notebook, the oil lamp had almost burned out, but in her heart, another fire of curiosity and determination had begun to ignite — she wanted to know her full story, not out of simple curiosity, but because she felt that story, no matter how painful, was part of the strength she needed to face what was to come.