Chapter 1 — The Stage of the Unsaid

At six o'clock in the afternoon, when the entire corridor of Hung Dong High School was empty of students, Lam Anh Thu still sat quietly in the old hall, the only place in the school that still retained the smell of old wood and the red velvet curtain that had faded over the years. On the empty stage, a lone standing lamp still burned brightly in the vast darkness — the "soul lamp", as it was traditionally called by generations of Drama Club students, the lamp was never allowed to go out, so that the stage would never truly be plunged into complete darkness.

Mr. Thu sat in the front row, his notebook open in front of him, his pen stopping in the middle of an unfinished sentence. This was the fourth time this week she sat alone after practice, trying to complete the final act of her graduation play — "The Light at the End of the Road" — but every time she touched on the conversation between mother and daughter in the hospital, her hand stopped, unable to continue writing.

"Are you still here?" Ngoc Diep, a close friend and also the person in charge of the club's costumes, walked in from the backstage, holding a pile of scraps of fabric that still smelled of glue. "I thought you came back a long time ago."

"I just want to finish level five," Anh Thu replied, closing the notebook, trying to hide the tiredness evident on his face. "There are two months left until the national festival, I don't want to leave any lines unfinished."

Ngoc Diep sat down next to her, his eyes full of concern. "You know, you don't have to be perfect right now. That's why we have a lot of training ahead of us."

"I know," Anh Thu replied, his voice lowered. "But act five... is the most important act. I need it to be right."

Ngoc Diep did not ask further, just nodded slightly. The whole club knew, though no one ever said it out loud, that the play "The Light at the End of the Road" was more than just a graduation exercise. Two years ago, Anh Thu's mother - who was an amateur theater actress before getting married - passed away after a long struggle with illness. The play, with the story of a mother and daughter who have not yet had time to say all the important things before separating, contains many things that Anh Thu has never revealed to anyone, even to her own family members.

"Ah, I forgot," Ngoc Diep said, suddenly remembering something. "Miss Huong texted this morning, saying there will be a new member joining the club from next week."

Anh Thu frowned. "New member? This time of the school year? We're less than two months away from the festival."

"I was wondering the same thing," Ngoc Diep replied, shrugging her shoulders. "But Ms. Huong said, this is a student transferring from another school, needing enough hours of extracurricular activities to apply for a scholarship to study abroad. I heard his name is Hoang Kien, in the same class 12A3 as us."

That name flashed past Anh Thu's ears without leaving any special impression. She is used to the fact that every semester, there are always a few students who come to the club just because they need "plus points on their records", attend a few sessions and then quietly withdraw when they realize that the behind-the-scenes work is not as easy as they imagined.

"How long do you think he'll last?" Ngoc Diep asked, his voice full of familiar teasing.

"It's not important," Anh Thu replied, standing up to pack his things. "We have too much work to do to worry about a temporary member."

But that sentence, although spoken with decisiveness, did not completely reflect what Anh Thu really felt when she walked out of the auditorium late that night. There was something in Ms. Huong's eyes when mentioning the name "Hoang Kien" - even through Ngoc Diep's words - that made her feel that perhaps this was not simply a temporary member like the others.

The next morning, at the small club office next to the hall, Ms. Huong - the homeroom teacher of the Drama Club and director of every play for the past eight years - called Anh Thu to discuss privately before afternoon practice.

"I know you're worried about progress," Ms. Huong said, pouring Anh Thu a cup of hot tea. "But I think, this new member might be more helpful than you think."

"Miss Huong, we have less than two months left," Anh Thu replied, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm not sure I have enough time to train a completely new person, especially since he doesn't seem really interested in the stage."

Miss Huong smiled, her eyes contained something that Anh Thu could not predict. "There are people who, even though they appear the most indifferent on the outside, have the most surprising things in them. Just give him a chance, okay?"

Anh Thu did not object further, although he still had many doubts in his heart. That afternoon, when the club members gathered in the hall to begin the practice session, a tall and thin figure, wearing a brand new uniform, stood quietly at the door, his eyes scanning the stage with obvious reserve.

"It must be him," Duy Anh, in charge of the club's lights and sound, whispered to Anh Thu, nodding toward the door.

Mr. Thu approached and observed the newcomer with the familiar eyes of a club leader. "Are you Hoang Kien?" she asked, her voice polite but no less straightforward.

"That's right," he replied, his voice low and concise, his eyes not looking directly at the stage behind her, but strangely avoiding it.

"I'm Anh Thu, the club's president, and also the scriptwriter for this year's graduation play," she introduced, trying to maintain a professional attitude. "Miss Huong said you will join us from today."

"I just need enough extracurricular activities," Kien replied bluntly, with no intention of beating around the bush. "I don't have any experience in theater, so maybe I'd be better suited to working behind the scenes."

That cold answer made Anh Thu frown slightly, but she did not show her discomfort. "Okay," she replied. "We always need people behind the scenes. You can start by helping with the set."

Kien nodded, didn't say anything more, quietly followed Duy Anh towards the backstage area where the unfinished backdrops were piled high. Anh Thu stood for a moment, observed his stiff, somewhat forced gait, clearly feeling an invisible tension surrounding the newcomer, different from the indifference and superficiality she was used to seeing in other "temporary" members.

The rehearsal took place normally, the main actors took turns reviewing important scenes under the direction of Ms. Huong. In the middle of the show, when Duy Anh asked Kien to help check the stage lighting system, test the light flow for a scene, Anh Thu accidentally witnessed a strange moment - right when the main stage light suddenly turned on brightly, shining directly into the area where Kien was standing, he stopped, his hands clenched, his face flashed with a panicked expression for just a split second before regaining his composure.

"Are you okay?" Duy Anh asked, realizing the abnormality.

"I'm fine," Kien replied quickly, his voice a bit urgent, stepping back out of the light. "It's just a bit dazzling."

Anh Thu stood from afar observing that entire moment, a vague premonition told her that the reaction just now was not simply "dazzle" like his forced explanation. There was something deeper, a real fear hidden behind that fleeting look of panic — a fear that she, with many years of experience standing behind the scenes observing actors, could not help but recognize.

She didn't say anything, just quietly took notes in her mind, vowing to find out more about this mysterious transfer student. Even though she didn't know it, that seemingly random moment of observation would be the beginning of a journey that would connect both of them in the tumultuous and emotional days to come.

In the evening, when Anh Thu returned to the small house where she lived with her father, Mr. Lam Duc Thang was still sitting in the office, the table lamp shining down on the thick stack of legal documents. Hearing the door open, he looked up, his eyes flashed with the familiar fatigue of a single father who had raised his daughter alone for the past two years.

"Didn't you come back from practice today?" he asked, his tone not quite reproachful but unable to hide his concern either.

"I still have to complete the script before the festival, dad," Anh Thu replied, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the familiar hook. "There's less than two months left."

Mr. Duc Thang sighed and put down his pen. "I don't object to you joining the club, but you're about to take your graduation exam and apply to university. I hope you spend more time studying for Block C and preparing for the Law entrance exam."

"I know, dad," Anh Thu replied, his voice quiet, not wanting to argue any further on an already tiring evening. "I will try to balance both."

She went to her private room and sat down at her desk, but instead of opening her exam preparation books, she took out her script book and turned to the last unfinished page of act five, where the mother character prepares to say goodbye to her daughter. She looked at the unfinished blank line, her finger gently touching the small photo frame placed on the table - a photo of her mother smiling brightly during an amateur theater performance many years ago, her eyes sparkling with the passion that now, Anh Thu is trying to continue in her own way, even though that path is becoming increasingly distant from the expectations set by her father.