Chapter 17 — The Watch Repair Shop That Doesn't Sell Time

The investigation agency's meeting room is located on the third floor of an old building, with worn wooden tables and chairs and a ceiling fan rotating slowly above. Quan appeared at the session with a group of lawyers, wearing a dark suit and an attitude so calm that it made the other person wonder whether he was really worried or not. He admitted that the leaf logo belonged to Vạn Thành, but denied transporting people. He called Hòa an employee who left the station voluntarily, and the recording was "a conversation without enough context." Lan sat in the back row, observing the way Quan adjusted his tie every time he was asked a difficult question, a small gesture but enough to reveal the tension he tried to hide under a calm shell. She remembered what Minh once said: everyone has a small quirk that betrays their fake calmness, like a broken watch that always shows traces even though the outside is still shiny.

Hạ spoke slowly, not letting Quan lead her, her voice was steady as if she had practiced in front of the mirror dozens of times last night so as not to be overwhelmed by emotions. She presented the goods book, employee ID card and list of names, detail by detail, no embellishments, no evasions. Nam handed over the car drawing, his hand shaking slightly as he pointed to the leaf-shaped logo that had faded over many years of storage. Loc told the story of the knock on the door, his voice choked up at the part about not opening the door in time. The letter confirmed the side door, her eyes lowered as if still carrying the guilt of a promise not kept. Each statement has its own flaws, but when placed side by side, they form a straight line.

The investigation representative took notes continuously, occasionally stopping to compare testimonies, looking for similarities and small inconsistencies that only insiders could explain. Quan sat quietly, his hands clasped together on the table, only occasionally writing something down in the small notebook in front of him.

Lan did not sit at the witness table, just stood quietly in the back. She only handed over her father's letter and made it clear that it was not evidence of a crime. “It just shows he tried to protect someone and failed to tell his family.”

Quan asked why she used private letters to harm other people's reputation. Lan replied: "I don't use it to condemn. I use it so that no one turns my father into a perfect character."

The answer left the meeting room silent. Quan's lawyer could not argue that a family has the right to define its own loss. Quan's eyes wavered for the first time, a moment of confusion passed before he could regain his familiar composure.

Minh, sitting a few rows away, recognized that moment. He thought of Mr. Sáu, of the evenings when the old teacher sat quietly in front of the editing table, saying nothing about what he knew. Perhaps Mr. Sáu has also faced moments like this, when the truth and safety of others hung on a single decision, and he chose to stay silent because he believed that was the best way to protect the people he loved.

The investigator presented medical station records, old yellowed factory books and cassette tapes. Preliminary examination determined that the tape had no signs of cutting in the part containing Quan's voice. He still denies it, but the story has left the "insufficient basis" zone.

Hòa was not found, but the Vạn Thành case file was reopened. Those who had been taken through the freight train were instructed to identify and request compensation. Dung, Nam and Hạ signed their real names. Their hands were no longer shaking like the first time they met, but instead showed a determination that had been forged through weeks of preparation. Thu decided not to publish her name, but her testimony was confidential, and she told Lan that just being listened to, acknowledged, was enough to make her feel much more relieved than fifteen years of carrying a heavy secret.

In the afternoon after the session, the group sat down at a nearby cafe, no one said much, just quietly drank tea and looked at each other as if to confirm that they had gone through an important journey together. Dung told a joke about his car repair shop, trying to lighten the mood, and for the first time in weeks, everyone laughed out loud.

After the session, when everyone had left, Lan met Quan in the hallway. He asked her if she thought her father would be happy that he brought everyone here. Lan said: "I don't know what he wants. I know the person who was dragged in had the right to choose to speak."

Quan smiled faintly, his eyes looking at Lan as if trying to find a weakness to exploit. “You look like your mother.”

“I don't want to be exactly like anyone else.”

Minh stood at the end of the hallway, hands in his pockets, not interfering. He understood that Lan had found her voice, no need to borrow the ticking sound to speak.

That night, when Lan arrived home, Mrs. Hạnh was waiting in the living room, the soft yellow light shining down on her half-white hair. She asked if the session was successful. Lan sat down next to her mother, held her skinny hand, and said she couldn't call it success. “But mom no longer has to tell it alone.”

Mrs. Hạnh looked out the window, her distant eyes following the darkness outside. "I'm afraid that if I tell the truth, you guys will hate dad."

"We can both love and be angry. Those two things do not cancel each other out," Lan replied, squeezing her mother's hand tighter. “It took me years to understand that, but now I know for sure.”

Tùng walked in from the kitchen and placed two steaming cups of hot tea on the table. He stopped avoiding conversations about his father, but still did not want to make him the center of every family conversation. "If I hear that he's still alive in the future, I'll ask him if he wants to meet me. I won't decide on my own." Mrs. Hạnh nodded, her fingers gently touching the rim of the hot tea cup as if looking for a physical support for her rising emotions. "It's something I should have done a long time ago. I've made decisions for too many people over too many years, even when I had no right to do so."

Mother and child sat silently together for a while, the wall clock in the living room ticked steadily, a normal sound, carrying no memories or secrets, simply the passing of time.

Minh gave Lan Hòa's watch box. “Do you want to accept it?”

Lan opened the lid. The clock no longer has a minute hand but the gears still turn. It makes a small, normal sound, without the sound of the station or speech. Lan kept it in her pocket, not wearing it on her hand.

“I'll keep it until I know who I want to keep it for.”

Minh said: “That's a good enough answer.”

He watched her put the box in her bag, her gestures were gentle but decisive, no longer the hesitation of the first days she walked into his shop with the silver watch stopped at 16:42. There was a change in the way Lan moved, the way she spoke, the way she looked at things around her — as if she had learned how to carry the past without letting it drag her behind.

The investigator sent a notice: the file will move to the stage of verifying assets and related people. No one knows how long it will last, it could be months, it could be years. Hạ prepared a victim support group, Nam learned more vocational skills, and Dung repaired cars for workers for free. They don't become symbols; they just started living by their name, one day at a time, without haste, without needing a perfect ending to prove that all the past suffering was meaningful.

Lan returned to the shop when it was already dark and saw a new customer on the sign setting an alarm clock. She agreed to help Minh fix it, for the first time holding a screwdriver without fear of damaging it. A small but clear confidence crept into her every gesture. A misaligned minute hand only needs a slight adjustment, no need to disassemble the entire mechanism.

Minh stood next to her, guiding each small movement, his hand occasionally placed on her hand to adjust the direction of holding the screwdriver correctly. "Don't force it to run fast. Let it find its rhythm."

Lan put her ear to her ear to listen to the ticking sound, closing her eyes to fully feel that small but steady sound. She thought of her father, mother, Hạ and herself. Everyone is out of tune, but still moving, continuing to live in their own way, no one needs to be completely in sync with another to have value.

Before leaving the session, Hạ gave Lan a list of families who had not dared to speak up, handwritten on a piece of paper folded into quarters, with neat handwriting as if each name carried a unique weight that needed to be cherished. Lan did not put names in the newspaper, just sent each person a safe invitation, patiently waiting for a response without pressure. She knew one session doesn't end the story; it just opened a room where others can enter without being reduced to numbers, when they were ready.