Chapter 3 — The Light Keeper at the Sea Gate

The following days passed in a steady work rhythm but there was still a lot of distance between Hoai An and Khoi. Every morning, she got up early, went up to the tower with him to check the lighting system, recorded technical specifications, then spent the afternoon analyzing data and drafting preliminary reports. Khoi still maintained a reserved attitude, only answering exactly what she asked, nothing more and nothing less.

On the morning of the fourth day, when Hoai An was checking the wiring leading from the engine room to the light room, she discovered something unusual in the wire layout. "Mr. Khoi," she called, her voice somewhat urgent. "Can you look at this for me?"

Khoi walked over, bent down and looked in the direction her hand was pointing. "Is there a problem?"

"This backup power line is connected in the old style, which does not meet current safety standards," Hoai An explained, pointing to a piece of wire that was manually wrapped with insulating tape. "If an electrical short occurs, the automatic shutdown system may not operate in time."

Khoi frowned, carefully observing the wire she had just pointed out. "I temporarily repaired this part myself after the old line was bitten by rats half a year ago," he explained, his voice a bit defensive. "I have reported to above but there has not been an official technical team to replace me."

"I understand," Hoai An replied, noting the matter in his report. "I would recommend prioritizing fixing this point in the upcoming maintenance plan, whether automation is implemented or not."

Hearing her mention that she would propose a fix whether there was automation or not, Khoi looked up at her with slightly surprised eyes, as if he didn't expect her to care so much about the station's safety, instead of just focusing on the goal of replacing humans with machines.

"Do you really think this automation project is a good thing?" he asked, his voice no longer completely cold like the first few days, but mixed with a bit of genuine curiosity.

Hoai An stopped and thought for a moment before answering. "I think technology can help reduce risk in many cases, especially in areas that are difficult to reach or lack human resources," she said carefully. "But I also realized, after a few days here, that the job of a lightkeeper is not simply to turn on and off a light bulb. It is also an understanding of every small fluctuation in the weather and the sea, something that not all sensors can completely replace."

After a moment of silence, his eyes looked at her with a new expression, no longer completely wary like before. “That's the first time I've heard someone from the Maritime Bureau say that,” he said quietly, then returned to his work, but the atmosphere between the two seemed to have eased a bit.

That afternoon, when they were having dinner together, Khoi suddenly took the initiative to speak first, something that rarely happened in recent days. "Where did you study marine engineering?" he asked, naturally picking up the food.

"I studied at Maritime University, then had a year of internship at a shipbuilding company abroad before returning to work for the Department," Hoai An replied, a bit surprised by his initiative but also feeling happy because the conversation was gradually becoming more natural. "My father was a naval officer, maybe that's why I've always had a special love for the sea since I was young."

"Is your father still working?" Khoi continued asking, seeming genuinely interested.

A moment of sadness flashed across Hoai An's face. "My father retired early, seven years ago," she replied, her voice low. "His unit was downsized during a restructuring, even though he was still healthy and experienced enough to continue contributing. Perhaps because of witnessing that, I always feel guilty every time my job involves cutting personnel for reasons of economic efficiency."

Khoi looked at her with thoughtful eyes, perhaps realizing for the first time that the woman in front of him also had her own wounds and conflicts, and was not simply an emotionless machine performing tasks as he had thought.

"I'm sorry for having a bad attitude towards you in the early days," he said suddenly, his voice rarely sincere. "I... I have my own reasons for being sensitive about this, but that doesn't mean I should take my anger out on you."

"It's okay," Hoai An replied, smiling gently. "I understand, this is the place you have spent your whole life. Anyone would feel insecure when someone comes and talks about changing everything they are familiar with."

That afternoon, when they together checked the corrosion status of the steel structure at the base of the tower, the working atmosphere became much lighter and more open than the previous days. Khoi even proactively explained many technical details that he learned through many years of practical experience, which were not found in any official training documents.

"You know what," Hoai An said, as they took a break, sitting on a large rock overlooking the ocean. "What you know about this lighthouse, how it reacts to each type of weather, each wind season, is valuable data that no sensor can collect in a short time. I think, my report needs to fully reflect that value, not simply technical numbers."

Khoi turned to look at her, his eyes contained a silent gratitude that he couldn't put into words, but Hoai An could feel, between them, a fragile but genuine connection was starting to form, between the sound of the crashing waves and the afternoon sunlight gradually falling on the vast sea.

"Do you want to see this?" Khoi suddenly asked, stood up, brushed the sand from his pants, and waved his hand for her to follow. He led her around the back of the stone house, to a small yard fenced with old fishing nets, where several rows of green vegetables were growing well.

"Do you still grow vegetables?" Hoai An asked, surprised at the meticulous care of this small garden in the middle of a deserted place.

"The land here is arid, growing vegetables is not easy," Khoi replied, his voice carrying a rare bit of pride. "My father started growing this garden when I was a child, saying that lightkeepers cannot only rely on supplies from the mainland, they must know how to take care of themselves on days when the sea is rough and there are no ships coming in or out."

Hoai An bent down and looked at the green beds of water spinach and amaranth, mixed with a few clusters of ripe red chili peppers. "It's beautiful," she said sincerely. "I didn't think it was possible to grow such a lush garden in the middle of such a barren cliff."

"Just be patient," Khoi replied, bending down to pull out a few weeds in the vegetable patch in a familiar way. "Like many other things in this life, nothing comes naturally that is good, you have to put in the effort to take care of it every day."

That sentence seemed to have a deeper meaning than the story about the garden, making Hoai An silent for a moment, thinking. She looked at Khoi working hard next to the vegetable patch, the sunset covering his face with a warm yellow color, and for the first time, she realized the quiet, steadfast beauty in this seemingly dry, cold person.

"Do you want me to help?" she asked, squatting down next to him, ready to get to work even though she had never gardened before.

Khoi looked up at her, a bit surprised by that suggestion, then nodded slightly, showing her how to distinguish weeds from young vegetables. They worked together in silence for a long time, with only the sound of the ocean waves and the wind as the background, a silence that was no longer as oppressive as the first days, but became strangely comfortable and close.

"Thank you," Khoi said suddenly, when they had finished pulling out the weeds. "For not treating my job like something outdated that needs to be eliminated."

Hoai An smiled, brushed his hands and stood up. "I think sometimes the best things aren't always the most modern, the most efficient things according to the numbers," she said. "There are values that cannot be measured by technical reports."

Khoi's eyes stayed on her face for a long moment, as if trying to understand something hidden in those words, before he turned away, hiding an emotion that neither of them was ready to name, as the sun gradually disappeared behind the horizon, dyeing both the sky and the sea a brilliant orange, signaling another peaceful evening waiting for them at this lonely lighthouse, which now seemed a little less lonely than the previous days. that.