Chapter 10 — The Watch Repair Shop That Doesn't Sell Time

Minh opened the pocket watch at 16:42. He does not stand alone; Lan and Tùng were on both sides of the table, while the lawyer's tape recorder was placed some distance away. If a memory appears, they record it as a narrative, not taking it as a judgment.

Minh's hand trembled slightly when he placed his thumb on the lid opening latch, a tremor he had never let anyone see in his twelve years of practice. He took a deep breath, feeling the familiar smell of motor oil mixed with the smell of old paper from the open notebook on the table. Lan stood half a step back, close enough to be present, far enough away to not make this moment her own.

The balance wheel vibrates, a small vibration that Minh feels through his fingertips even more clearly than with his ears. The first sound was the sound of an iron door being pulled. Then Mr. Sáu's voice, older but clear: "Minh, you can't keep this watch forever." A younger voice replied: “I don't want to hear it.” Mr. Sáu smiled softly. “So you should fix it and make it work, then choose whether to listen or not.”

The image is not fully displayed, just flickering like noisy film frames. Minh saw the old repair table and saw himself at the age of twenty-six, his face full of oil and anger. Mr. Sáu put the watch on the table and told him that Minh's father had once asked about a man named Hạ. His father died before he could explain why.

“You knew my father was involved?” Minh asked in memory.

"I know he helps Hòa. But your father doesn't want you to be dragged in."

The sound cut off, then switched to the station bell. Minh took his hand off the watch. Memory off. He gasped, his eyes were red but he didn't cry.

The room became so silent that the ticking of the other clocks on the wall suddenly sounded clearer than ever, as if they were all waiting for Minh to speak. He sat motionless for a long time, his hands on his knees, his eyes looking down at the wooden floor that was worn out from many years of walking back and forth.

Lan did not ask who Minh's father was, even though curiosity was gnawing at her heart. She just gave me a glass of water. Tùng turned off the recorder and respected the silence. When Minh calmed down, he said that Mr. Sáu once told his father to fix a watch for Hòa at the Phú Sơn factory. His father died in an electrical accident later, and Hòa disappeared from the records.

“Did your father see Hòa after the night at the station?” Lan asked.

"Maybe. Mr. Sáu said my father helped take an injured person to the hospital and then returned to the factory. He later died in an electrical accident."

Tùng looked at the notebook, his eyes scanning each line again. “So Hòa may have worked in Phú Sơn.”

Minh called an old friend in the city to look up factory records. Hòa's name does not appear, but there is a worker with the code name "H." made that year. This person quit his job after two years, leaving an address in a coastal district.

The friend sent a photo on the phone of the yellowed salary book page, with the familiar slanted handwriting that Minh immediately recognized as Mr. Sáu's. He enlarged the photo, his fingers skimming over each line of numbers as if looking for a more certain sign than that vague abbreviation. Nothing more. There's just a blank space in the notes column where there should have been an explanation.

Lan wanted to leave immediately, but the lawyer asked them to send all the documents first. The labor organization has agreed to support witnesses, but needs to be careful to avoid hasty conclusions about whether Hòa is alive or dead. A misdirected investigation could cause vulnerable people to lose their opportunity to be protected.

Lan tapped her fingers on the table, trying to suppress the impatience rising in her chest. She understood the lawyer's argument, but the part of her—the part of her that was still the fifteen-year-old waiting at the window—just wanted to drive to the coastal district immediately, regardless of protocol. Minh placed his hand on her shoulder, so lightly that it almost didn't touch, just enough to remind her that haste sometimes destroys the very thing people are trying to protect.

While waiting, Mrs. Hạnh had a rare sober day. Lan brought the watch to the hospital but did not put it in her mother's hand. She told about Hạ, Loc, Thu and a person named Nam. Mrs. Hạnh heard everything, then asked: "Are you looking for your father or are you looking for a reason to blame your mother?"

Lan finds that question more painful than any answer. “I don't know yet.”

"I burned the letter because I was afraid you would follow him. Hòa doesn't want you to be around people who threaten him. I also don't want you to hate him."

“But mom let me think he left.”

"I chose a word that would make you live until you grew up. I didn't know it would make you wait your whole life."

Tùng sat by the door, bowing his head. Mrs. Hạnh held the hands of her two children. "Your father is not a completely good person. He said he would come back even though he knew he wasn't sure. That's the promise I hate the most."

Lan understood that the story had a middle point. It's not that Hòa is a hidden hero, nor is it that Mrs. Hạnh is a selfish wife. A family chose half-truths to protect each other, then lived inside the consequences.

She looked at her mother who was falling asleep again, her breathing light, and wondered how many nights Mrs. Hạnh lay awake, wondering whether her decision to keep quiet was right or wrong. No one teaches a mother how to balance protecting her child and being honest with her child. Mrs. Hạnh chose instinctively, and like all human choices, it carries both love and hurt in the same action.

After returning to the shop, when the afternoon sunlight cast long shadows through the door, Lan asked Minh if he could fix the watch so it could run normally. Minh said yes, but no need. It had passed the stopping time, and had returned what needed to be returned.

“So what will you do with it?”

"Let it run a few seconds wrong. Being on time won't save anyone."

Tùng received a call from a friend in Phú Sơn. There is an old watch factory being demolished to build apartments. In the warehouse, they found a salary book with the initials H., dated the same day after the disappearance. The factory owner sold the land, but agreed to let them in before the machinery was moved elsewhere.

Tùng read the message twice before informing Lan and Minh, his voice trembling with both excitement and worry. This was the first time they had a specific place, not an intermediary account or a blurry memory from a watch, but a real place that could be visited, could be touched, could be found for evidence with their own hands.

Lan felt a new fear well up in her chest. If evidence is in storage, it may be thrown away before they arrive. Minh immediately prepared a box of evidence, Tùng called a lawyer, and Lan sent a message to Hạ. Hạ only replied, briefly but decisively: "Don't go to find people who have chosen to leave. Go to protect those who haven't yet had time to speak."

The car left town at dawn, when the mist still hung over the fields along the road and the sunlight had just barely dyed the horizon pink. The silver watch in Lan's hand ticked past 16:50 and then continued. Minh drove slowly, no one played music. Each person brought a question, but for the first time they did not force others to answer for them.

Lan looked out the glass door and saw the silhouettes of three people faintly reflected on the glass surface mixed with the scenery passing by outside. There is something both familiar and strange about that image — three people who were once strangers, now sitting in the same car, heading towards a place that may hold the answer or just another dead end. Regardless, she realized she was no longer as scared as the first days she entered the watch repair shop.

On the way, Lan opened her father's letter again. On the edge of the paper was a blue dot that she hadn't noticed yet. Minh looked at it with a magnifying glass and realized it was the ink used in Mr. Sáu's editing book. The period is not a place symbol, but a reminder to “read slowly.”

Tùng smiled sadly, a short laugh without any joy in it. “Dad always thought he could control everyone's speed.”

Lan folded the letter, carefully following the old fold. “Maybe he only knows how to love by fixing things in his hands.”

Minh drove across the bridge, looking at the clock on the dashboard. The second hand was seven seconds late, but the car still arrived at the factory on time. No one needs a perfect hour to get into the rest of the story.

When the silhouettes of the old chimneys of the Phú Sơn industrial park appeared on the horizon, all three people in the car were silent. Lan tightened her hands on her thighs, Tùng stopped tapping his fingers on the window, and Minh adjusted the rearview mirror even though it wasn't really necessary. Each in their own way is bracing themselves for whatever lies ahead — a new clue, another dead end, or a truth that none of them are truly ready for.