Chapter 2 — Theater at the End of the Hallway

Teacher Quang did not scold him immediately. The teacher went straight to the projector, bent down to check the electrical outlet and then looked at the red light on the ceiling.

“Who turned on the phone?”

Quan raised his hand halfway. “I didn't have time to do anything and my chair fell off.”

“Not you.”

Lam pointed at Huy. “He's fixing it.”

Huy shook his head. “I just took off the lid.”

Bao Tran opened the book. "No one turned it on. We're at the end of the cleaning session."

Teacher Quang put his hand on the machine. The rectangular dust trail caused the teacher's expression to change. The teacher pulled the curtain and took a small wooden box from the door sill. The box has a newer lock than all the objects in the room.

“This theater used to be used for the school's film club,” he said. "Three years ago, the system broke down. Since then, no one has been allowed in without a teacher."

“So why does the machine run by itself?” Lam asked.

“Maybe the circuit is still there.”

Huy said softly: "If an electrical outlet doesn't have a fuse, the circuit cannot run."

Teacher Quang looked at him. “Are you better than me at this part?”

“No. But projectors don't lie.”

Quan nudged Lam. “This sounds like a club slogan.”

Teacher Quang asked everyone to leave the room. Before locking the door, the teacher took out the tin film box, but the blue cloth strap had slipped a knot. Inside the box was not a roll of film but a stack of yellowed paper tickets. The name of a movie is printed on the ticket: **Rainy Season in the Backyard**.

“Do you know this movie?” Tran asked.

"Know."

“School movie?”

“An assignment from students of the class of 2004.”

The teacher said no more, put the ticket in a wooden box and locked it. Lam saw a ticket folded in half, with blue writing on the back: **Last scene sent to a place no one expected.**

The next day, rumors about the words on the cloth spread through the three classrooms. Quan recounted with excitement, adding that the projector showed the shadow of a woman with long hair. Tran squeezed her forehead, and Lam had to spend the entire break explaining that she didn't post the video.

“You have pictures,” Huy said when they met at the library.

“I didn't post.”

“But you still keep it.”

“Hold it to know you're not imagining it.”

Huy placed a circuit diagram on the table. He redrew the theater's sockets and lines. An old wire ran up to the red light box and then around the back of the screen, but the end of the wire was cut.

“There are people who temporarily connect the circuit with batteries,” Huy said. “The writing is not a ghost.”

"I don't trust ghosts either. Ghosts don't know how to write accented letters."

“Maybe the writer used a computer.”

Tran pulled out a chair and sat down. She placed three photocopies on the table: the 2004 film club calendar, the membership list, and the school newsletter. On the list is Do Hoai An.

Lam looked at the name, his heart skipped a beat. “My mother.”

“Your mother studied in Dong Thanh?” Quan asked.

"Yes. But never told."

The newsletter has a short article about the movie *Rainy Season in the Backyard*. Director is Nguyen Khai, cameraman Do Hoai An, sound Pham Tuan. The movie was scheduled to be shown during the school's anniversary celebration, but the following news said "the screening was canceled due to technical problems." There is no explanation of the final scene.

Lam took another photo of the pages, this time with Tran's permission. Huy looked at Lam's mother's name, then asked very softly: "Have you asked your mother?"

"No. What if mom doesn't want to remind me?"

“Well at least you know how to ask.”

After class, the group returned to the theater. Teacher Quang allowed them to take inventory under his supervision. Quan was wearing gloves and his finger got stuck in the chair handle. Tran had to use motor oil, and Lam laughed until her stomach hurt.

Huy removed the wooden panel behind the projection screen. A narrow gap appeared, big enough to fit your hand through. He took out a cassette tape box, on the lid was written with a blue pen: **Last scene sound - do not delete**.

Teacher Quang did not stop. The teacher only told me to put the box on the table, not to listen in the theater. They brought the tapes to the teacher's room, using the teacher's old cassette player.

The first sound is the sound of rain. Then there were footsteps running on the cement floor, a girl's laughter and a man's voice saying: "If we cut this scene, we won't know who came back."

A click sounded. The tape stops.

Lam recognized the girl's voice. That was her mother, much younger but still had the same way of prolonging the word "no" as she does now.

Huy looked at her. “Do you want to continue?”

Lam put his hand on the tape box. “I want to know why the last scene was cut.”

Outside the window, the school bell rang. In the room, the sound of rain from the tape was still playing very softly, like a person waiting to hear the end of the sentence.

Mr. Quang allowed them to listen to the tape again in the data room, but had to make a record. Tran clearly states the duration, box condition and name of person present. Quan asked if it was necessary to include the fact that he ate dumplings; Tran said if oil gets on the bandage then yes.

Huy cleans the cassette player with a cotton swab. He removed the gear, checked the head and marked the position of each screw. Lam sat opposite him, watching his precise movements. She used to think that repairing machines was a manual job, but Huy acted like he was reading a language.

“Do you know the polygraph?” Lam asked.

“The machine only records errors if the user sets them incorrectly.”

“So the text on the screen was misplaced by the user?”

“Maybe you want me to ask myself.”

Tran opened the old news. The article about the movie had a sentence cut off at the end in the photocopy. She contacted the city library to ask for the original copy. Quan suggested asking older teachers, because adults often remember things they think students have forgotten.

They created a list of former members' names. Among them was a person named Bui Minh Son, who was in charge of lighting. The records say he changed schools suddenly after the show. Another person named Nguyen Ha, in charge of props, currently teaches at another school.

Lam called Ha's number. A woman's voice answered the phone, recognized Hoai An's name and asked if Lam was her son. Lam confirmed. Ha said she didn't want to tell it over the phone, but sent a photo of the green chair. Photo taken from the back, there are star-shaped paint marks on the back of the chair.

“Where is this chair?” Lam asked.

"If it's still there, it's at the end of the line. Don't turn it over until someone has witnessed it."

The call ended. Quan looked at the photo and said the chair looked like the seat of a very polite ghost. Tran reminded him not to use the word "ghost" in the file.

Huy discovered that the cassette had two layers of overwriting. Someone once wrote a new paragraph at the end and then erased it completely. You can restore the noise, but it takes time and is not guaranteed.

“What if the third person's voice can be restored?” Lam asked.

“I still have to ask the person if they want their voice to appear.”

Lam nodded. The answer was repeated, but it didn't bother her anymore. It's like a chair that must be checked before sitting: a slow step helps avoid a big fall.

In the theater, they opened the green chair according to Ha's words. Below is a small engraving: **A-27**. Huy took photos, Tran recorded the location. No box or letter. Just a hair stuck in the hinge, no one guessed the source.

Mr. Quang told me about the chair was once placed in a mobile screening room, brought to classrooms in flooded areas. Hoai An and Khai used it to set up the machine, while Nhi sat there listening to the sound again. Does Lam understand why her mother kept the hairpin; It appeared in the photo because Nhi put it in her hair before filming.

That evening, Lam told his mother about finding A-27. Mother did not appear surprised. She said the chair is not a souvenir, it is a place where people once sat to decide whether to continue or not.

“What did Mom decide?”

“I decided for Nhi before asking her.”

Lam doesn't know whether to blame or pity. She asked her mother if she wanted to go to the theater with her. Mom said not today.

The next day, Mr. Quang sent an email: the council could announce the renovation plan sooner. The team has less than two weeks left to prepare the proposal. The text on the screen no longer appeared, but the pressure had a clear shape.

Tran wrote on the board: **We are not looking for ghosts. We seek to do it right.**

More troops below: **And don't break the chair.**

Huy looked at the two lines and burst out laughing. Lam realized that his laughter was different from the sound of the machine. It doesn't need to be fixed.

At the end of the session, Tran gave each member a small notebook. The first page states the holder's name, purpose of use and return date. Quan asked if I needed to sign when borrowing cake; Tran said if the cake sticks to the device, then yes.

Lam brought back his notebook and wrote his goal: "Not turning every sign into content." She found this task more difficult than filming a video, but also more worth trying.

Before putting away the book, Lam wrote down the names of three people already in the theater and asked if he had asked each of them for permission. She sent a message to Tran, Huy and Quan confirming saving the note. Quan replied with a chair icon, Huy replied "yes", and Tran sent the minutes form.

The next morning, Tran brought a stack of papers titled "trial filming agreement". Small items make Quan wince: duration of use, where to save the file, when it expires, how to withdraw consent. Tran said the paperwork doesn't make the story cold; it helps people know what ground the story is standing on. Lam read each line carefully and then changed the "character" section to "participant", because one person just wanted to help set up the lights and did not want to be called a character. Huy quietly measured the socket, and Quan tried writing his signature in three different ways and asked which one looked less like a ticket.

During recess, a group of lower classes stopped by the theater door because they heard there was a projector. Lam did not raise the phone. She gave each person a colored card: green means you can take pictures of hands or objects, yellow means you have to ask, red means you can't take pictures. A friend holding a red card smiled and said he was just coming to watch. Lam nodded and opened the door wider. As the children ran in, the sound of shoes echoed in the empty room. Without filming, Lam still realized this was the best opening scene for a movie about a once forgotten place.