Chapter 13 — The Light Keeper at the Sea Gate

In the following days, Hoai An spent most of his free time completing the evidence file, comparing every detail, making sure all arguments had a solid basis. She also contacted a few former colleagues at the Maritime Administration who could help her further verify the process of handling maintenance requests during that year's budget cuts, to better understand the context that led to these serious delays.

Meanwhile, she still tries to maintain a normal pace of life with Khoi, even though she always carries a burden of secrets in her heart. Sometimes, she caught Khoi looking at her with questioning eyes, as if he sensed something strange in her attitude, but he never asked, respecting the private space she needed.

One afternoon, while Hoai An was working in the archive room, rearranging the last documents for his file, Khoi suddenly walked in, holding another stack of documents that he had just found while cleaning out the storage room behind the house.

"I found these," he said, placing the stack of documents on the table. "It seems to be father's old papers, I think you might need them for your work."

Hoai An felt her heart tighten when she realized that, among the documents Khoi had just brought, there was another copy of the same maintenance request form that she had found earlier, along with a few handwritten notes from Khoi's father expressing concern about the safety of the device.

"Thank you," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, even though her hands shook a little as she took the file.

Khoi, noticing the slight change in her expression, stopped, his eyes searching. "Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice somewhat wary again, reminiscent of the early days when they first knew each other.

"It's nothing," Hoai An replied, but her voice wasn't convincing enough to dispel the suspicion that was gradually forming in his eyes.

Khoi walked closer, looked down at the pile of documents on the table, his eyes glanced over the yellowed pages. Suddenly, he realized that one of them was a maintenance request form that he had never noticed before, even though it had been in his family's archives for many years.

"What is this?" he asked, picking up the form, skimming through the content, his face gradually changing to a confused expression.

Hoai An knew that the moment she had tried to delay had now come, even though she was not completely ready. “Koi,” she said, her voice gentle but serious. "I think, we need to sit down and talk about this."

"Talk about what?" He asked, his voice began to tense as he realized that something important was being hidden. "This is my father's request to repair the generator. Why do you have it in your work file?"

"I found it while reviewing the station's historical documents," Hoai An explained, trying to keep her voice calm. "And I learned more and compared it with the processing records from the Maritime Administration."

There was silence, his eyes were glued to the form in his hand, his father's familiar words appeared before his eyes like a wave of memories rushing in. “This is about the old generator,” he said, his voice slow, as if trying to piece together pieces of information. "The generator caused the problem that night."

"That's right," Hoai An confirmed, her voice gentle but firm.

"Father reported this matter before he passed away?" Asking, his voice began to tremble, a combination of confusion and another emotion he couldn't yet name.

"Yes," Hoai An replied, deciding it was time for her to tell the whole truth, even though she knew this would probably shake him up. "Three months before your father died, he sent this urgent maintenance request to his superiors, warning of the severe deterioration of the backup generator wiring."

Standing there, his hand tightened on the form, his body tense as if trying to control a storm of emotions welling up inside. "So why," he asked, his voice choking, "why wasn't it fixed? Why didn't anyone tell me about this?"

Hoai An stepped closer, wanting to put her hand on his shoulder to reassure him, but Khoi took a step back, his eyes were now filled with a deep confusion and hurt that she had never seen in him since that fateful stormy night.

"How long have you known about this?" he asked, his voice suddenly cold and distant, a defensive wall she thought they had torn down together long ago now seemed to be rebuilding.

"About two weeks," Hoai An replied honestly, even though she knew this answer could make things worse. "I discovered this form while organizing the archives, and I took the time to verify all the information before telling you."

"Two weeks?" Khoi repeated, his voice containing a clear hurt. "You knew about this for two weeks and didn't tell me?"

"I want to be absolutely sure before I tell you," Hoai An explained, her voice urgent. "I don't want to give you incomplete information that could cause misunderstandings or unnecessary hurt if I misunderstand the issue."

"So while you were busy 'verifying', I continued to live with the thought that I killed my brother," Khoi said, his voice trembling, no longer able to contain his rising emotions. "Do you know what that feels like? Every night I go up to the watch tower, I wonder if I reacted fast enough, if I could have done better."

"I know, and that's why I'm even more cautious," Hoai An replied, tears starting to well up in her eyes at the pain evident on Khoi's face. "I don't want to speak half-heartedly and then make you endure another uncertainty. I want when I tell you, I can give you the whole truth, all the evidence, so that you no longer have to doubt anything."

Khoi turned around and walked to the window, his hand still clutching the form, his shoulders trembling with a mixed emotion that he couldn't even name — both a vague relief at the possibility that he might not be entirely responsible, a burning anger at the system's negligence that had taken away his younger brother, and a feeling of betrayal that Hoai An had kept this secret from him for the past two weeks.

"I need some time alone," he said finally, his voice hoarse, without turning his head to look at her. "Sorry, but I can't talk about this right now."

"Koi, I..." Hoai An began, but he walked out of the room before she could finish her sentence, leaving her standing there alone in the middle of the messy storage room, her hands still shaking from the conversation that had just happened.

She heard his footsteps echoing on the spiral staircase, the sound of the light room door closing, and she knew that he was looking for the only place that made him feel safe when he needed to face emotions that were too big to handle immediately.

Hoai An sat down on a nearby chair, her hands covering her head, tears finally rolling down her cheeks. She knew she did the right thing in wanting to have all the evidence before telling the truth, but she also realized that perhaps the way she handled this situation wasn't really perfect — maybe she should have found a way to share with Khoi sooner, even if the information wasn't completely complete, instead of letting him find out so suddenly.

She sat there for a long time, among stacks of old files, listening to the sea breeze blowing through the window, feeling guilt and worry mixed in her heart. She wondered if she had just damaged the relationship they had built together, just because of a decision that she believed was right but was perhaps made at the wrong time and in the wrong way.

Outside, the sunset gradually fell, dyeing the sky a gloomy orange, as if reflecting the confused mood that enveloped both of them, in the middle of a lighthouse that had always been a symbol of guidance and illumination, now became the place to witness one of the most fragile moments in their relationship.

She stood up, walked out onto the porch, looked up at the top of the tower where Khoi's figure loomed behind the glass of the light booth, lonely in the space he had shared with her in so many warm moments. She didn't know if she should wait or take the initiative to find him, afraid that any action now could make things worse.

In the end, she decided to let him have his own space as he had requested, returned to her room, but could not concentrate on any other work. She sat there, clutching the evidence file she had painstakingly prepared, wondering if all that effort was bringing about the opposite of what she wanted — instead of healing, it was deepening old wounds, and maybe, a new rift between her and the person she loved.