Chapter 19 — The Watch Repair Shop That Doesn't Sell Time

A year later, Vạn Thành's file changed to a civil case and labor investigation. Quan is prohibited from holding management positions during the verification period. Victims received the first payment, not enough to make up for the lost years but enough to help them hire a lawyer and stabilize their homes.

The slope leading up to the shop was so familiar to Lan that she could close her eyes without tripping over a single stone. The phoenix tree at the end of the alley bloomed with bright red flowers, petals falling on the shop's corrugated iron roof every time the wind blew. A year has passed slowly, without big shocks, just each day followed by small things: fixing a watch, recording a statement, drinking a cup of tea with my mother.

Hạ no longer uses a fake name in meetings. Nam opened a small studio to record the stories of the workers. Dung repaired the car for the witness group. Loc took his son to learn woodworking. The changes are not big in the newspaper, but big in each house.

Lan finished the audiobook without putting her father's name on the cover. She dedicated a chapter to Mrs. Hạnh, a chapter to Hạ, and a chapter to those who did not want to be called by name. The last part contained only the ticking sound of a clock running seven seconds slow.

That morning, a regular customer brought to the shop an antique table clock, passed down through four generations, and promised Minh to fix it urgently that day because the family needed it for an important death anniversary in the evening. That's the kind of work Minh loves most — complex machinery that requires absolute concentration, something that can make him forget everything else for hours at a time. He had just placed the watch on the table and was about to remove the cover when the phone rang.

It's Tùng, his voice is unusually urgent. Mrs. Hạnh, while cleaning out an old cabinet, found another roll of film hidden behind the bottom board of the cabinet - a roll of film that she herself did not know she had kept, or had forgotten about for a long time. She was sitting trembling in the living room, not daring to see for herself, only calling her children.

Minh looked at the unfinished desk clock, then at the wall clock: less than three hours left before the customer came to pick it up. If he quits now, he won't be able to complete it on time - something that had never happened in his entire career. What Mr. Sáu always taught was a taboo for a decent worker: if you accept an offer, you must keep it.

He stood still in the middle of the shop for a moment, still holding the screwdriver, looking at the unfinished clock on the table - work, professional honor, a promise to customers - then looked out the door, at the slope leading towards Lan's house. This was the moment he'd been avoiding for years: choosing between hiding in his small, safe, controllable cogs, and stepping out, facing real people, emotions that couldn't be fixed with a screwdriver.

He put down the screwdriver and wrote a note on the door: "It's urgent. Come back before five o'clock." Then he locked the shop door and walked straight towards Lan's house without hesitation for another second.

The second hand of the pocket watch in Minh's pocket ticked past 16:42 as he stepped through Lan's doorstep.

Mrs. Hạnh sat huddled in a chair, the film roll placed on her lap like an object too hot to hold for long. Lan knelt down next to her mother, holding her hand tightly. Tùng stood next to an old projector borrowed from a neighbor, his hands shaking as he inserted the film roll. Minh walked in at that moment, didn't say anything, just stood silently behind Lan.

“I didn't know Mom still had it,” Lan said, her voice choked up.

“I don't remember either,” Mrs. Hạnh replied. “Maybe she hid it from herself, the same way she hides so many other things.”

The projector runs. The image appeared tremblingly: one afternoon at the train station, Hòa stood opposite Mrs. Hạnh, holding a silver watch in his hand. There was no sound, just a silent image, but his lips moved more clearly than any recording they had seen before. This time, Lan read the entire sentence, not just two broken words like in the old film.

“I don't promise to come back,” Hòa said, his lips trembling but each word was clear. "I beg you, don't wait. Don't wait means you are allowed to live, allowed to love others if you want, allowed to let Lan grow up without having to watch you wait at the window every afternoon. Waiting is a trap I don't want to give you."

Mrs. Hạnh burst into tears, the cry she had suppressed for fifteen years was now bursting out uncontrollably. “I got it wrong,” she choked out. "I thought he said don't wait because he no longer loves this family. I used that sentence to fuel my anger, to have a reason to hate him without having to face the nostalgia."

Lan hugged her mother, both crying. Tùng stood still, his hands clenched into fists and then slowly relaxed, as if letting go of a burden he had carried since he was a ten-year-old child standing behind his mother.

"For so many years," Tùng said, his voice breaking, "I blamed you for always bringing up the old story. I was afraid that if I knew the truth, our family would fall apart again. I'm sorry."

“No,” Lan replied, turning to hug her younger brother. "I'm the one who should apologize. I left you alone to take care of your mother while I searched for an answer I thought only I deserved."

The two sisters hugged each other for a long time, for the first time there was no defense or blame between them. Minh stood still, looking at that scene, feeling something in his chest melting as well. He thought about the unfinished table clock in the shop, about the promise he made to the customer, and realized he did not regret the choice he had made.

When the emotions subsided, Mrs. Hạnh looked at Minh, her eyes were unusually gentle. “Thank you for coming,” she said. "You don't have to come. This is none of your business."

“Maybe not completely,” Minh replied, his voice low but firm. “But I've learned that sometimes being there for others in their difficult moments is also a way to repair yourself.”

He looked at his watch, there was more than an hour left to get back to the shop. He asked permission to leave, promising to return in the evening, and this time it was a promise he knew he could keep.

Minh opened the silver watch for the last time that evening, after finishing the table clock on time for the guest. He replaced the wheel, repainted the rim and installed a new blue strap for Lan's silver watch. Kim ran on time, but Minh deliberately delayed it by three seconds. Lan asked why. “So that he doesn't pretend everything is perfect.”

Ms. Hạnh listened to the last recording one afternoon. Hòa's voice echoed softly: "Lan, father doesn't know how to return without bringing danger." Mrs. Hạnh finished listening and placed her hands on the table. She didn't cry. She just said: “He finally said the right thing.”

Lan asked her mother if she was angry. "Yes. But anger no longer keeps him in the house."

Tùng brought in an electronic watch with a broken screen. I bought it for my mother so she remembers when to take her medicine. Minh edited for free, Lan put a large label on the dial. Mrs. Hạnh smiled and said she could still remember it herself.

Hạ sent word to find a new address for the woman who used to take care of Hòa. She didn't want them to come, she just wanted to let them know that he lived in a mountainous area and worked as a radio repairman. Lan read the news and put away her phone. She didn't feel the need to go. Knowing one person is alive is enough for today.

Minh asked if she had given up. Lan replied: "I did not give up. I ended my search."

“Different?”

"Giving up is letting fear decide. Finishing is choosing your own stopping point." Minh nodded. He also took Mr. Sáu's pocket watch out of the box. He repaired the strap and engraved a small dot next to the number 16:42. Don't delete the stop time, just add a mark to remember it has continued running.

The shop organized a free watch repair session for children in town. Minh taught the children to recognize gears, Lan talked about asking adults when they see injustice, Tùng instructed them to back up data. No one talked about Hòa the whole time, but a little girl brought a watch without hands and asked if she could fix the future.

Minh replied: "No. But you can fix the way you enter it."

Lan heard that sentence and found it more beautiful than any opening sentence she had ever written. She wrote it down in her notebook, but didn't use it right away. There are sentences that need to live for a while before becoming a narrative.

Late afternoon, everyone left the shop. The sun shines on the row of clocks, creating rings of light on the floor. The second hand of the silver watch passes through 16:42, 16:43, 16:44. There was no calling, no figure in the glass.

Lan put her hand on the watch cover. She doesn't need to hear more. She knew her father had loved her in a clumsy way, her mother had protected her with a wrong word, and she could carry both without turning them into chains.

A reporter asked Lan why she didn't find Hòa until the end. She replied: "A person has the right to take responsibility for leaving. The person who stays also has the right to stop standing at the door." The answer was posted, but Lan did not read the comments.

Minh started teaching Lan to weigh the mainspring. She broke three of them and fixed the fourth. He didn't praise her, just asked her where she saw her mistake. Lan said the rope was pulled too tight. Minh replied: "Things are like people. The faster you try to make them run, the easier it is to break."

Tùng brought the compensation report. Some families will receive enough, others will only receive an apology. Lan doesn't call it complete justice, but their names are on the record, instead of being erased from the books.