Chapter 11 — Unfinished Music

Part III — Preliminary Round

On Monday afternoon, after the day Gia Bảo sang Tường Vy's unfinished song in an empty room, he went to the music room fifteen minutes earlier than usual. Not because he needed more time to practice his voice, but because he needed more time to gather courage for what he was about to do.

Ms. Hạnh was sitting at the teacher's desk, marking a stack of music tests for grade 10, her glasses hanging down the bridge of her nose. Hearing footsteps, she looked up, a bit surprised to see that the person who arrived the earliest today was the student who always appeared quietly in the corner of the room, sitting in the last row like a guest who hadn't decided whether to stay or not.

"Gia Bảo? You're here so early," Ms. Hạnh said, placing the red pen on the table. "What's the matter, child?"

Gia Bảo took a deep breath, his hands clenched in his pockets according to old habit, but this time he did not let that habit pull him back. "Miss Hanh," he said, his voice trembling slightly but clearly, "I want to officially join the Choir Club."

Ms. Hạnh paused for a second, her glasses seemed to fall a little further because she forgot to adjust them. "Are you telling the truth?" she asked, her voice unable to hide her surprise, but soon a smile slowly spread across her face, as warm as the late autumn sunlight streaming through the music room window. "I... I'm very happy to hear you say that. But you know, there are only about three weeks left until the cluster level preliminary round. Have you thought about it carefully?"

"I've thought about it carefully," Gia Bảo replied, and this time he surprised himself because his voice wasn't as shaky as he thought it would be. "I know it's late. But I don't want to stand outside and watch anymore."

Ms. Hạnh nodded, her eyes gently looking at the student standing in front of her, a student that she had silently observed over the past few weeks, from the sessions of standing at the door eavesdropping to the sessions of staying to watch practice, not saying a word but always following each note with her eyes. "Okay, I'll put your name on the official list. Can you tell everyone during practice today? I think everyone will be happy to hear this news."

During practice that day, when the group had gathered all twelve people in the music room, sitting in a familiar arc around the piano, Ms. Hạnh signaled Gia Bảo to stand up. He felt his heart beat faster, not because he had to sing, but because he had to say something that for the past three years he never thought he would say out loud.

"I have something to announce," Gia Bảo began, his voice slightly broken with nervousness, his hands clasping the hem of his uniform. "I... I want to apply to join the club. Officially."

There was a short moment of silence that covered the whole room, enough for Gia Bảo to regret not having prepared another sentence in case no one reacted. But then Anh Kiệt was the first to break the silence, slamming his hand down on the keyboard to create a shrill, excited chord.

"Finally! Oh my god, I've been waiting for this moment for so long!" he shouted, then turned to Minh Thư who was sitting next to him, shaking her shoulder. "Did you see, I told you he would come in anyway. Thu didn't believe it and even bet with me."

Minh Thư blushed and mumbled a denial, but her eyes also lit up with joy. The whole group started to stir, some people clapped, some people turned to ask Tường Vy if she knew about this before, making the group leader just laugh, her face turned unusually pink that Gia Bảo noticed but didn't dare to think too much.

"Welcome," Tường Vy said, her voice trying to maintain the calmness of a team leader, but her eyes, when looking straight at Gia Bảo, contained something much deeper than the usual joy of someone who just had a new member. "The club is happy to have you."

Amid those bustling congratulatory sounds, Gia Bảo noticed that Ngọc Diễm was still sitting quietly in the corner of the room, not because she was unhappy - her face still had a smile, but that smile was a bit more reserved than the others, as if she was considering something in her mind. He didn't think much about it at the time, simply noting it and letting his mind drift along with the ongoing stream of congratulations.

After the practice session, when everyone had dispersed to collect their belongings, Gia Bảo overheard a conversation between Ngọc Diễm and Tường Vy in the corner of the room, the two of them were rearranging a stack of music.

"I'm truly happy for him, don't misunderstand," Ngọc Diễm said, her voice low, not to hide it but also not intentionally for Gia Bảo to hear. "It's just... there are only three more weeks left, Vy. He has never sung in front of the group, never stood on the competition stage. I'm just worried, if on exam day he can't last, what will happen to the team?"

"I know," Tường Vy replied, her voice gentle but firm. "But he has improved a lot, Diem. You haven't heard him sing yet."

"Yeah, that's right," Ngọc Diễm said, there was a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice but no malice. "Only you can hear it, but we only know through your words. I don't doubt he has talent, Vy, it's just... I think the whole group needs to hear it with their own ears, as soon as possible, before it's too late."

Gia Bảo stood there dumbfounded, pretending to be folding his book bag but his ears still perked up to hear every word. He knew Ngọc Diễm was right. He hadn't sung in front of more than one person since that fateful day in ninth grade, and now he was about to stand in front of not only eleven of his club friends, but also an unfamiliar hall full of judges, opponents, and spectators.

That worry followed him home, creeping into every thought while he sat at his desk, his pen unconsciously tapping on the edge of his notebook, then at some unknown moment, scribbles shaped like musical notes appeared on the margins of the page, an old habit that he still keeps when his mind was confused and cannot concentrate on his work.

Three weeks. He repeated that number in his head, feeling that it was both long and strangely short. Long, because every day that passes brings with it the pressure of having to practice and having to get used to the feeling of standing and singing in front of others again. Short, because compared to the three years he spent avoiding that fear, three weeks was nothing.

That evening, Ms. Hạnh sent to the club's chat group a detailed training plan for the remaining three weeks, pasted on the top with the bold words: "Let's all try together, the goal is to bring a spot to the semi-finals for the school!" Below is the schedule for each session - warm-up vocal practice, review of the mandatory song "Singing for School Age" to properly adjust the rhythm and harmony, then dedicate the last three sessions to perfecting the optional song, the folk song arrangement that the whole group has been practicing since the first days of the school year, the melody that Gia Bảo himself once traced with his guitar in an afternoon when he didn't even dare to step into the music room.

Ms. Hạnh also added a private message, sent directly to Gia Bảo: "I will let Tường Vy arrange a short chorus for you in a folk song, if you feel ready. No forcing, it's up to you to decide."

Gia Bảo looked at that message for a long time, his finger hovering over the phone screen without being able to type a word. A chant meant there would be a moment, however brief, when the whole hall would hear only his voice ring out, with no one to mingle with and no crowd to hide behind. He remembered the group singing session last month, the feeling of being protected by dozens of other voices at the same time, and he knew clearly that this time would be different, much closer to the old nightmare.

But he also remembered the moment in the empty music room, with only Tường Vy listening, when he let his voice ring out fully for the first time in three years. That feeling was nothing like the fear he had imagined all these years. It was soothing, warm, like a tightly closed door suddenly opening to a space he had forgotten existed.

"I'll try it," he typed, then sent it before he could change his mind.

Ms. Hạnh replied almost immediately, along with a smiley face: "Very good. I believe you can do it."

Gia Bảo put down the phone and looked out the window of his room, where the yellow streetlights cast shadows of dry tree branches on the opposite wall. He took the guitar out of the corner of the cabinet, not to retrace any specific melody, but just to have something familiar in his hand while his mind was still full of thoughts. He thought of Ngọc Diễm, of the doubt that was not malicious but still made his heart sink. He thought of Tường Vy's eyes in the afternoon, the eyes that seemed to silently tell him that she believed in him more than he believed in himself.

Three weeks. A chant. An unfamiliar hall filled with strangers.

Gia Bảo strummed a low chord, letting the sound linger in the quiet room, and for the first time in his long journey back to music, he allowed himself to think of the prospect of being on that stage not as a nightmare, but as something he, perhaps, actually wanted to do.

He didn't know how many hardships the road ahead would have, and didn't know how his mother, Ms. Thanh, would react when she found out — because he still hadn't told her a word about the club, about the after-school practice sessions, or about the decision just made today. But right now, in the small room with an old guitar in hand, Gia Bảo only allowed himself to enjoy that rare feeling of relief, the feeling of someone who had just officially crossed the threshold that he had been standing outside looking in for so long.

Outside, the November night was gradually falling, bringing the first cold air of the season through the window. Gia Bảo pulled the thin blanket over his shoulders, placed the guitar against the head of the bed as usual, and before falling asleep, he even recited the first few lines of a familiar folk song in his head, clearly feeling a thrill mixed with excitement stirring in his chest, different from the paralyzing fear that had been constant for the past three years whenever he thought about having to sing in front of others.