Chapter 14 — The Watch Repair Shop That Doesn't Sell Time

The alcove in the shop floor is behind a wooden panel near the back door, hidden by a parts cabinet. Minh knew it existed since he was an apprentice, but Mr. Sáu always told him not to open it without witnesses. Lan, Tùng and the lawyer stood around; The camera records the entire process.

Minh knelt down, placing both hands on the edge of the wooden board, discolored by time. He remembered the first time he saw it, when he was an eighteen-year-old apprentice curiously rummaging around the workshop when Mr. Sáu was absent. He caught him standing in front of that wooden board, not angry, just saying one sentence: "One day you will open it, but it must be the day you no longer open it out of curiosity." Today, twelve years later, Minh understands that day has finally come.

Below is an iron box covered in green cloth, thick with dust over many years lying dormant under the tile floor. In the box there was a copy of the Vạn Thành list, a secondary road map, a photo of Hòa at the Phú Sơn factory and a train ticket with the name "H.". There is no information on where he is. There is a letter Mr. Sáu wrote to Minh but has not sent it yet.

“If you open this box, it means you understand that fixing a watch cannot fix the consequences of a word of silence,” the letter read. "Whether Hòa is alive or not is not up to me to decide. What belongs to me is to give voice back to those who are treated like commodities."

Minh finished reading, folded the letter, his hands shaking slightly as he put it in his breast pocket. Mr. Sáu's handwriting, even though it has faded over the years, still carries a weight that makes Minh feel like an old teacher is standing right behind him, observing every decision he is about to make. He read the last paragraph again, slowly, as if to make sure he didn't miss any meaning hidden in those simple words.

Lan asked why Mr. Sáu didn't deliver the box to her sooner. “Maybe he waited for you to find it yourself, so it wouldn't turn into something I threw into your hands.” Minh stopped and looked down at his hands. "He always said, a truth given too soon can be just as harmful as a truth kept hidden too long. Both deprive the listener of the right to come to it for themselves."

Tùng opened the map and spread it out on the editing table for everyone to see. The secondary road leads to a transit station, then radiates to three districts. A leaf-shaped sign marks the abandoned medical station. Hạ recognized that as the place where Vạn Thành used to take injured people.

Lawyers warn that old evidence may be disputed, but is enough to require a reinvestigation if combined with new testimony. The labor organization wants to announce it, and Lan wants to protect Ms. Hạnh. The two needs are not mutually exclusive, but require the consent of the affected person.

Mrs. Hạnh heard the entire story through the call, her voice was more steady than Lan Thuong's, as if she had been mentally preparing for this moment for a long time. She said she did not want her name to appear, but wanted Hòa's name to be said correctly. "He is not a saint, nor is he an abandoner. He is someone who chooses one thing and hurts others." She paused for a moment, breathing heavier over the phone. "I spent fifteen years hating him or making excuses for him. Now I just want to see him as a person, nothing more, nothing less," Lan asked her mother if she wanted to find him. Mrs. Hạnh replied: "If he's still alive, I don't want to take him back. I just want to know if he ever thinks about the children." Hạ agreed to attend a closed meeting with investigation representatives as soon as he was notified. Nam sent a drawing of the truck. Loc and Secretary testified. Dung agreed to put his real name on the profile. Each person adds a piece, no one is strong enough to tell it for the others.

The man in the black coat returned the next afternoon, this time standing outside the door without entering, just staring at the inside of the shop through the glass. Minh called the police, but he left before the car arrived, walking hurriedly but not panicking, like a person accustomed to disappearing at the right moment. The shop's camera recorded an unclear face, a blurred profile and a scar on his left hand, enough to compare with old photos of Vạn Thành.

Lan asked Minh if he was scared. "Yes. Being afraid doesn't mean you have to close your doors."

“I was closed for twelve years.”

"Because at the time I thought closing the door was control. Now I know it's just a way to make the room darker."

Minh removed the sign "Do not accept changes to promises", wiped away the dust with the soft cloth he used to clean the watch glass. He didn't erase the words, just placed a new sign next to it: "Fix things — listen to the story if the teller wants." Lan smiled for the first time in many days, a light but genuine smile, not forced.

“Do you think the old sign should still be kept?” she asked.

“Yes,” Minh replied, still holding the old sign as if considering where to hang it. "It reminds me of what I used to fear. Letting go of it is like pretending that fear never existed." The investigation team agreed to open a preliminary file on Vạn Thành. They needed a direct witness to Hòa's being taken away. Hạ and Nam only saw part of it; Loc heard the sound; Book keeping letter. The person who knew best may be Thanh, but he was dead.

Tùng found Thanh's family that afternoon. The son showed a box of recordings his father left behind, saying he often memorized work because he was afraid of forgetting, a habit he had since he was young. The tape had many machine sounded, no one was sure they can restore it. Minh accepted to repair the old cassette player for free.

When the machine runs, the first sound is the station bell, screeching through the old, much degraded tape. The whole room held its breath, no one dared to move for fear of missing a sound. Then Thanh's voice rang out, shaking, different from the calmness Lan had thought of this man through old photos: "Hòa, you're destroying the whole line," Hòa replied, his voice strangely calm in the midst of a dangerous situation: "The line was broken first." There was the sound of a door locking, metal clashing harshly, then a third voice, cold and powerful, said: "Put him in the car."

The third voice belongs to a man named Quan, manager of Vạn Thành at that time. Quan is currently a consultant for a large logistics company, appearing in several business articles as a successful and elegant businessman. Bang did not say whether Hòa was alive or dead, but confirmed that he was forced to leave the station.

The lawyer stopped the tape, noted the exact time of the recording, then played it back again so everyone could hear Quan's voice carefully. “We're going to need independent audio testing,” he said. “But if it is his voice, this is the first direct evidence linking Quan to the incident.”

Tùng sat quietly, his hands clasped together. He thought about the years when Quan still blatantly appeared in the press as a model of success, while his family lived in the darkness of an unanswered question. There was a smoldering anger welling up inside him, an emotion he hadn't allowed himself to fully feel in all these years.

Lan stood at the repair table, listening to the end. She didn't feel victorious. Only saw one door open, followed by many other doors that needed people to pass through.

She looked around the room and saw Tùng still sitting motionless, Minh standing silently next to the cassette player, and the lawyer taking quick notes on a pad of paper. Each person reacted differently to the same truth, but none of them cheered. Perhaps that is what Lan learned the most during this journey: the truth does not always bring immediate relief, sometimes it only opens up new, heavier questions.

Minh closed the cassette player. “Now you can decide where to tell this story.”

Lan looked at her mother through the phone screen, at Tùng, Hạ and the people waiting to be protected. “Where it helps them get their name back.”

They began preparing the public profile, page by page, without splashing headlines, without turning pain into a commodity. The silver watch was sealed, no one called it a miracle anymore.

Before leaving the store, when everyone was ready to leave, Lan discovered in the iron box a small piece of paper with the date 16:42 and the name "Quan",Mr. Sáu's handwriting was familiar, slanted. Minh said he had known the manager for a long time but did not have enough evidence to take action. Lan doesn't blame him. She understands that there were truths that need to be at the right time, not because the truth was weak, but because the speaker needed to live long enough and safely enough to be fully heard.

Tùng set up a work schedule, assigned people to contact witnesses, did legal checks and took care of Mrs. Hạnh. His handwriting was neat as if trying to create order for a chaotic mess of emotions inside. Lan said "find Hòa at all costs". She replaced it with "protect the person speaking". The new words made the filing table lighter, as if an invisible burden had just been laid down.