Chapter 24 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

A Place No One Can Find

Bui Dac Sinh was diligently sharpening a hand drill when Khe Lam walked into his small workshop on the edge of Day Deck, the steady hiss of grinding stones blending with the familiar low hum of the old ventilation system. He didn't look up right away, just glanced at her and continued working, as if he wanted her to have time to stabilize her breathing before starting to talk - a discreet concern that only people who had lived in silence for a long time know how to express.

"You're later than usual." He said finally, putting down the drill and brushing his hands on his worn leather apron.

"I have to go around." Khe Lam replied, sitting down on the familiar stool opposite him. "Since the security announcement, I don't dare go straight here anymore. I'm afraid someone will follow my route."

Bui Dac Sinh nodded slowly, his eyes lowered. "You did the right thing. I lived through a time when getting around to an unsuspecting place was a basic survival skill, like knowing how to read a pressure gauge or knowing how to apply the right kind of oil to the right joints."

"Have you heard anything more? About the investigation?" She asked, even though she knew the answer was almost certainly no — Bui Dac Sinh lived almost separately from the Root Floor's rumor network, only hearing what passed through the few people who still visited him.

"I heard rumors that a pair of children entered the restricted storage area on the Dome Level." He replied, his voice cautious. "The rumor has no names, no faces, only that the Guards are searching more fiercely than usual. Do you know anything about that, little girl?"

Khe Lam was silent for a long time, then nodded, just a small nod, no further explanation needed. Bui Dac Sinh closed his eyes, sighed, his old hands clasped the edge of the desk.

"He was afraid of this." He said, opening his eyes, his eyes now carried an undisguised worry. "You were moving too fast, child. I understand the urge in you—I've seen it in others, long ago—but speed is not always the truth's friend. Sometimes the truth takes time to reveal itself safely, piece by piece, instead of being dragged into the light all at once and taking with it all who stand near it."

"I don't have much of a choice, sir." Khe Lam said. "Everything just comes to you, faster than you can control."

He looked at her for a long time, then reached for a small tin box placed on the shelf behind him, opened the lid, and took out two pieces of homemade dry cake made from synthetic nutritional powder mixed with a little refined sugar - a small gift he had occasionally prepared for her since she was a child who often wandered here to avoid the prying eyes of adults after her father passed away. He gave her a piece and kept one for himself, a small ritual that had remained constant for the past eight years.

"Eat." he said. "Even if the sky falls, you still need to eat."

She picked up the piece of cake, took a small bite, and its simple sweetness suddenly made her eyes sting — not because of the piece of cake, but because that small normality, amidst everything that was turning upside down around her, still persisted in existence like an anchor.

"I will be more careful." She promised, even though they both knew how fragile that promise was under the weight of what she had just discovered.

When leaving Bui Dac Sinh's workshop, Khe Lam did not go straight to the residential area, but turned through the Old Garden, where she had arranged to meet Bach Van after his shift. The abandoned hydroponic area welcomed her with the familiar damp smell of synthetic soil that no one had cared for a long time, wild plants growing over the rusty metal supports, dark green leaves shaking slightly every time the air from the old ventilation system blew through. This was the only place on the ship where she felt she could slow down her breathing.

Bach Van arrived first, sitting on a low concrete platform next to a long-drained nursery tank, playing with a dry leaf. When he saw her, he stood up, but didn't say anything right away, just gave her a small object wrapped in cloth — a thin, old leather-bound notebook.

"What is it?" She asked, unfolding the fabric.

"My mother's notebook." He replied, his voice low. "I found it in the things my father kept, unused for many years. It has nothing to do with Lam Chu or Night of Broken Roots, just her personal notes about her navigator work, a few thoughts about teaching me later. I want you to read it, not because it will help us with what we're looking for, but because..." He hesitated, looking for words. "Because you told me about your mother, about your father. I want you to know a little about my family, so that everything between us isn't just secret and dangerous."

Khe Lam held the notebook in her hand, feeling the wear of the leather cover under her fingers, the mark of someone who had held it many times before her. "Thank you." She said, her voice choked up a bit. "I will read it carefully, then return it to you."

They sat down next to each other on the concrete platform, the distance between the two of them was closer than ever before, no one actively narrowed it, it just happened naturally as an inevitable consequence of what they had gone through together.

She turned the first few pages of the notebook under the dim light, Tong Bich Vuong's slanted handwriting appeared clearly and carefully like the work she used to do. A line on the third page made Khe Lam pause: "On Bach Van's full month, I stood in the lobby observing the ship's bow for a long time, wondering if my children would ever see what I was seeing every night in the navigation cabin — numbers never lie, even though people can." She read that sentence twice, then closed the notebook, not daring to read any more in a public place, even though it was deserted, for fear that a sudden gust of wind or a tear would ruin the fragile pages that had passed through the hands of a deceased woman.

"She writes so well." She spoke softly, looking at Bach Van. "The words were as if she knew a lot of things in advance, earlier than what the system teaches a normal navigator."

"My father once said my mother always saw beyond what she was allowed to say." Bach Van replied, his voice lowered a bit. "Maybe that's why I believed you the first time you told me about the Lam Chu coordinates. Part of me has gotten used to the idea that there are correct things that aren't in the textbook."

"I met teacher Vuong." Bach Van recounted a conversation with Ngo Dac Vuong, about the unwritten rule "don't ask about Lam Chu" that had been passed down through many generations of Navigator Chiefs. Khe Lam listened, remained silent, felt the weight of a system that had learned to protect its secrets without force, only with the obedience implanted from early life lessons.

"So even those who don't know the whole truth are defending it." she said. "Not because they are evil, but because they are taught to respect a boundary they do not understand."

"Just like how I used to respect everything my father taught, without asking questions." Bach Van said, his voice carrying a new bitterness. "I used to think it was trust. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's just a cleverly disguised form of obedience."

Khe Lam looked at him, realizing a change was happening in him, slowly but surely, like a thin layer of ice cracking under the weight of what he was learning. She reached out her hand, not really on purpose, just a reflex to touch him, and he took her hand immediately, as if he had been waiting for that gesture for a long time.

"I don't regret coming here with you." He said, turning to look her straight in the eyes in the dim artificial light that simulated late afternoon. "Even though things are getting more dangerous every day. I only regret spending twenty-two years living without knowing there was another truth waiting to be found."

"Don't regret it." Khe Lam said, gently squeezing his hand. "Not everyone has the courage to start searching, even late."

In that moment, amidst the wild vines and the smell of old damp soil, Bach Van leaned closer, slowly, enough for her to have time to back away if she wanted. She did not back down. Their kiss was short, gentle, carrying the faint saltiness of fatigue and fear mixed with something warmer than either of them had ever fully experienced before—a rare moment of stolen peace amid the storm that was building around them.

When they separated, no one said anything else for a few seconds, only the sound of air blowing through the wild plants, the distant hum of the ventilation system, and their own heartbeats. Then Bach Van smiled softly, a tired but genuine smile.

"I should take you home before anyone realizes we've been gone for too long at the same time." he said.

They stood up, and before leaving the Old Garden in two different ways as usual, Khe Lam stuffed Tong Bich Vuong's notebook into his protective coat, close to his chest, as if holding something fragile. On the way home, she thought about both things burning in her heart at the same time — the desire to know who her mother was, and the new warm feeling that had just arisen between her and someone who, just a few months ago, she didn't think she would ever dare to trust. Both, she realized, were things she had never allowed herself to have before — and both were becoming more dangerous by the day.