Chapter 5 — The Watch Repair Shop That Doesn't Sell Time

The third chair was still at the station, although the roof had been removed and the Bình An nameplate only had the last three letters. Minh took Lan there when the sun had just gone out, a time when the light changed from yellow to pale purple, enough to see the path clearly but dim enough that what remained of the old station platform looked like a long exposure photograph. He brought a flashlight, a toolbox, and a silver watch that worked so well that it was off by less than ten seconds a day. Lan held her pocket in front of her chest and walked through the grass growing between the tracks. Her feet occasionally tripped over rotten wooden sleepers that had sunk deeply into the ground.

The air here smelled of rusty iron mixed with the smell of weeds, a smell Lan had never noticed when she was young but now suddenly felt strangely familiar, as if her body had stored it for a long time without realizing it. She slowed down, let her eyes scan every broken lamppost, every patch of patchy wall, trying to find in the fading memories of her eleven years old some image of that fateful afternoon.

“When did you receive this piece of paper?”

"Today."

“Mr. Sáu knew I would come back?”

“He knows people often return to where they left off.”

The third chair from the beginning of the platform is a green painted wooden bench, the back of the chair is engraved with people's names. Lan used a light to look under the car. There are no secret boxes or compartments, just one snail that is newer than the rest. Minh removed it and lifted the wooden board. A thin metal tube lay in the cavity, inside was a roll of film and an unopened train ticket.

The passenger's name is written on the ticket: Hạ, Hà Ly, no last name. Departure time 4:50 p.m., seat 12, car 3. The date has been blurred but the station seal still has a leaf shape.

“She uses the name Hạ,” Lan said. “Mai said that's not my real name.”

“It could be the name she chose.”

Minh held the film up to the light. The image captured a crowded station platform, poor quality, the end part was burned out. The first frames were just people walking back and forth, blurred because the camera shakes. Lan held her breath as Minh adjusted the focus, waiting for her father's face to appear clearly as if waiting for a miracle that she dared not believe. Hòa stood on the right side of the frame, holding a silver watch in one hand. Next to him was a short-haired girl, her face turned away. In the background, a man in a black coat was looking towards them.

Lan recognized the man. "That's Uncle Thanh, father's colleague."

“Is he alive?”

"Died two years ago. His family said he had a stroke."

Minh rewinded the film. For a very short moment, Hòa turned her head towards the camera. His lips moved. There was no sound, but Lan read two words: "Don't wait."

She took a step back. “Is he talking to mom or me?”

"Don't know."

“Can you stop saying that?”

Lan's voice trembled, not because she was angry at Minh, but because she realized she was asking for something no one could give: a definite answer for a moment that had passed fifteen years, remaining only in a silent film and the patchy memories of those who had grown old.

Minh turned off the light. “If I guess, you will use that guess to hurt others.”

Lan turned away, trying to regain her breath. She remembers her father sitting at the dining table fixing watches, listening to her read the lesson while working. He always promised to take her to the beach on weekends. After his disappearance, she hated clocks because they reminded her that the promise had a starting time but no ending time.

She still remembers the smell of motor oil on her father's hands every night, a smell that she now smells intact in Minh's toolbox. Perhaps that was the reason why she couldn't leave that watch repair shop as easily as she thought when she first entered three days ago - part of her was trying to regain the feeling of sitting next to a man who worked hard on tiny gears, silent but always there.

“This watch belongs to Hạ?”

“It seems so.”

“Why did my father keep it?”

Minh pointed to the back cover. “There is a thin gap here.”

He used the blade of the knife to pry off the silver layer. A tightly rolled piece of paper fell out, so small that it had to be picked up with tweezers. On the paper is a series of numbers: 3-12-17-4-9. Lan read it over and over again, not understanding it. Minh turned the back page and saw Mr. Sáu's handwriting: "It's not a code. It's the order of the person to call."

“Do you have a name?”

"No."

Lan took a photo of the serial number and sent it to Tùng. She sat waiting for the text message to respond, her fingers lightly tapping on the phone case, a habit from when she was editing audiobooks when she had to wait for the author to respond to the recording. The text message replied immediately: "I'm looking up the station's old personnel book."

The sound of a truck horn echoed from the highway, causing a flock of birds on the station roof to fly up. The silver watch vibrated in Lan's hand, emitting a long ticking sound. The glass surface reflects another image: young Mrs. Hạnh sitting on this chair, holding her stomach with both hands, Lan's father standing in front of her. Hòa said, his voice clear this time: "I'm not leaving you. I just can't bring you into that," Mrs. Hạnh replied: "Then take her away."

Broken image. Lan collapsed on the chair, covering her mouth with both hands. She had never seen her mother call her father "brother" with such despair. Throughout her childhood, her mother always spoke stiffly when referring to her father, as if a distance had been built up a long time ago to protect herself from having to remember a broken love. Hearing her younger, softer, more panicked voice through the echo of the clock made Lan feel like she was peeking into a room that should have been closed forever.

Minh squatted a distance away from her, not touching her.

“Memory is not evidence,” he said. “It is just the testimony of a thing.”

“But it might explain why Mom burned the letters.”

“Might as well make her ask her mother to remember something she tried to bury to protect her.”

Lan looked out at the railroad tracks. “I need to know what dad did.”

“You need to know what you will do once you find out.”

Minh's words hung in the cold evening air. Lan wanted to argue, but she realized she didn't have a strong enough argument to refute it. All her life she had imagined the moment of finding the truth would be like a closing door, a neat end. She never considered that the truth, once known, would require her to do something about it—to forgive, to let go, or to continue being angry in some other way.

Those two questions are not the same. Lan picked up the film roll, train ticket and piece of paper and put them in her own bag. She said she wouldn't show it to her mother until she had more information. Minh nodded, as if that was the slow enough first choice of the day.

Tùng called back. He found three people who sat at seats 3, 12, 17, 4 and 9 in the station's duty book on the day Hòa went missing. All signed with letters, except number 9 was left blank. The person who kept the book was Uncle Thanh.

“Who is number 9?” Lan asked over the phone.

Tùng was silent for a few seconds. “A box office employee named Mai.”

Lan looked at Minh. Miss Mai has kept the key for fifteen years. The piece of paper was not a list of people to call, but the order of those who saw Hòa leave the station — a chain of silent witnesses, each holding a sliver of truth too small to stand on its own.

When they returned to the shop, Minh placed the silver watch next to Mr. Sáu's pocket watch. The two second hands move past 16:45. He opened the drawer and took out his watch, the back still closed.

“Will you fix it?” Lan asked.

"Not yet."

“For fear of hearing something?”

“Because I don't want to turn regret into a career.”

Lan didn't fully understand, but she realized Minh was talking about something bigger than a watch, something that he probably couldn't even fully name. She looked at his profile standing sideways under the streetlight, his shoulders slightly hunched together as if he was hugging something that he didn't want anyone to touch. There was a silent pain in the way he spoke, different from the professional coldness he always showed when fixing things for customers. Lan wondered how many more years he would keep the pocket watch in a drawer before he had the courage to listen to it.

Outside on the street, Tùng parked the car, leaned against the door, waiting for the two of them. He didn't ask what they found, just gave each person a bottle of water and sat quietly waiting for someone to speak first. The three of them were not a team yet, just three people pulled together at the same hour, with the same unfinished story, and for the time being that was all that binds them together.

Minh locked the shop door, his hand paused for a moment on the lock as if considering something unsaid. On the sign behind the door, the old chalk lines appeared clearly again: "No promises to be changed." This time Lan didn't wipe it away. She took a pen and wrote below a small line: "But it might help people read it again."