Chapter 30 — Unfinished Music

A year passed so quickly that sometimes Gia Bảo had to stop in the middle of a busy afternoon, dumbfounded, wondering if things had really gone that far. He was now a first-year student majoring in Information Technology at a technical university in the heart of the city, living in a small room not far from school and sharing it with a new classmate. Student life brought a completely different rhythm from the high school years—more freedom, but also more responsibility, from taking care of his own meals to managing time between heavy theoretical and practical subjects.

But one thing had not changed, even though everything around him had changed a lot: every Tuesday and Thursday night, Gia Bảo still regularly carried his guitar—no longer the old guitar from his high school years, but a new one he had bought with money from tutoring English to middle school students on weekends—to the student music group's living room at school, which he had joined in his first semester without any hesitation.

The band was not large, only about fifteen members, performing at small school events, sometimes charity fundraisers, sometimes just cultural exchanges between clubs. Gia Bảo was in charge of the main vocals and guitar accompaniment, and he still vividly remembers the feeling of standing in front of the group's selection committee on the first day of auditions, heart beating fast, palms sweating - but this time, that nervousness no longer took the form of paralyzing fear, but simply the excitement of someone preparing to do what they love.

Tường Vy, a first-year student studying Music Education at a pedagogical university just a few bus stops away, was equally busy with a packed schedule of music theory, vocal music, and her first pedagogical practice sessions. The two still kept the habit of meeting on weekends, sometimes simply sitting in a small café near the school to review lessons together, sometimes walking along the river and telling each other trivial things that had happened during the week.

The relationship between the two of them, after a year away from home and their old school, did not fade away like the worries they both had before graduation, but on the contrary, it seemed to become stronger and more mature, like a piece of music played more and more fluently with each practice.

On a Sunday afternoon in mid-September, when the late summer sun began to soften, giving way to the first gusts of wind signaling the approach of autumn, Gia Bảo and Tường Vy decided to take the bus back to Nguyễn Trãi school, on the occasion of both having a break from school and remembering their old school. They had made an appointment with Ms. Hạnh, who was still serving as the Choir Club advisor, to visit a practice session that afternoon.

Stepping through the familiar school gate, the two couldn't help but feel excited when they saw the hallways, the phoenix trees that had now begun to shed their first leaves of the season, and especially the door to the music room on the second floor, which had witnessed so many of the most important moments in their journey to adulthood.

From the hallway, the sound of a piano and singing from a group of students echoed, so familiar that it made Gia Bảo suddenly smile. He looked at Tường Vy, saw that she was smiling the same way, and they both walked closer to the slightly opened door.

Minh Thư, now a twelfth-grade student and leader of the Choir Club, was standing in front of the piano instructing new members, looking so confident and calm that Gia Bảo almost did not recognize the shy girl from back then. Anh Kiệt, now in grade 12, was still in charge of the accompaniment, sitting next to Minh Thư with a familiar, comfortable smile.

"Ms. Tường Vy! Mr. Gia Bảo!" Minh Thư exclaimed when she saw two people standing at the door. She quickly ran to hug them both, joy evident on her face. "You two really came back to visit us! I thought Ms. Hạnh was just teasing me!"

Ms. Hạnh, standing in the corner of the room, walked over to greet the two former students with a warm smile that could not hide her joy. "I told you guys that you two would come over, Minh Thư just didn't believe it. Come here, come here, sit and watch you guys practice for a while."

Gia Bảo and Tường Vy stepped into the music room and looked around the familiar room - the blackboard in the corner of the room was now clean, there were no longer Gia Bảo's old scribbled music notes, instead there were a few words recording this week's practice schedule, but the warm atmosphere, the familiar orange-yellow light shining through the window every afternoon, were still intact like the old days.

While Minh Thư continued to guide the group in vocal practice, Gia Bảo noticed a new student, perhaps just entering the 10th grade, standing in the corner of the room, clutching a music book in his hand, his eyes constantly looking at the floor, not daring to look directly at anyone, and every time it was his turn to sing a short song, his voice would tremble, so soft that it was almost inaudible.

"His name is Binh, he's only been in the club for two weeks," Ms. Hạnh said softly to Gia Bảo when she realized he was observing that student. "His voice has great potential, but he's very shy and afraid of singing in front of a crowd. I think he looks a lot like me when I first joined the club, Gia Bảo."

Gia Bảo was silent for a moment, looking at the young student with his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly around the music book like an invisible shield, and a familiar feeling suddenly arose in his heart - as if he was seeing himself three years ago, standing at the back of this music room, trying to appear indifferent while his heart was yearning to be a part of something bigger.

When the training session took a break, Gia Bảo approached the student, sat down on a chair next to him, keeping a sufficient distance so as not to make the boy feel pressured.

"Hello, I'm Gia Bảo, former club member," he said, his voice gentle and friendly. "Did you hear Ms. Hạnh say you've only been in the club for two weeks?"

The student looked up, a little startled, then gave a small nod. "Yes... yes, that's right. I... I'm still a little scared when I have to sing in front of everyone."

"I understand that feeling very well," Gia Bảo said, smiling, his eyes filled with sincere sympathy. "I was also so afraid of singing in front of a crowd that I didn't dare sing karaoke with my friends, or sing in class, for three years in a row. I once stood on stage, my voice broke midway, and the whole hall burst out laughing. From then on I thought I would never dare to sing in front of anyone again."

The student's eyes opened wide, seemingly surprised to hear that someone who looked confident like Gia Bảo had experienced the same thing as his own fear. "So... how can you stand on the big stage? I heard Minh Thư tell you that you and Tường Vy used to sing in the city finals."

"Because you have people who believe in you, even when you don't believe in yourself," Gia Bảo replied, looking at Tường Vy who was standing and chatting with Ms. Hạnh on the other side of the room, his eyes filled with affection. "And because I realized that being afraid doesn't mean you're weak. It just means that what you're doing is really important to you. You don't have to stop being afraid immediately. You just need to, every day, dare to take one more small step, no matter how shaky that step is."

The student nodded slowly, as if trying to remember every word, then smiled, a small but genuine smile. "I... I will try."

"Hey," Gia Bảo added, pulling out a ballpoint pen from his pocket, then reaching for a piece of scrap paper on a nearby table, gently drawing a few small scribbled music notes, a habit he never really gave up, and then giving it to the student. "This is a little trick I used to do when I was nervous, whenever I needed time to calm down. Draw a few musical notes, it doesn't have to be pretty, it doesn't have to be right, just let your hands have something to do while your mind is confused. It helps me a lot."

The student received the piece of paper, looked at the scribbled music notes for a moment, then looked up at Gia Bảo with clearly grateful eyes. "Thank you."

The practice session continued, and this time, when it was his turn to sing a short sample, the student was still shaking, his voice still small, but he dared to raise his head and look straight ahead instead of bowing it to the floor as before. Gia Bảo, sitting in the back row and watching, felt a strange warmth in his heart, as if a certain circle that had begun three years ago was now completely closing.

When the practice session ended, the younger members gradually left, leaving only Gia Bảo, Tường Vy, Ms. Hạnh, Minh Thư and Anh Kiệt to stay for a while to chat and review old memories. The afternoon sunlight had begun to turn dark orange, shining through the music room window, covering everything with a layer of familiar warm light.

"You know," Minh Thư said to Tường Vy, her voice full of pride, "this year the club has twenty members, the largest ever. We are preparing for the preliminary round this year, reusing the song 'Unfinished Music' by you and Mr. Gia Bảo as one of the two exams."

Hearing that, Tường Vy's eyes sparkled with emotions she couldn't hide. "Is that music still played?"

"Of course," Ms. Hạnh replied, smiling. "That is our club's special music. It will always be a part of the history of Nguyễn Trãi School Choir Club, no matter how many generations of students pass by."

As the sun gradually sank behind the distant rooftops, dyeing the sky in a brilliant red-orange color, Gia Bảo and Tường Vy said goodbye to everyone, walked out of the music room, and walked along the quiet hallway of their old school, where the sunset was filtering through each window, spreading a carpet of warm orange-yellow light on the familiar tiled floor.

They stopped at the small yard in front of the school gate, where there was the stone bench they sat on graduation day last year. Tường Vy sat down, pulled Gia Bảo's hand to sit next to her, they both quietly watched the sky gradually change from orange to purple, then to dark blue, the first stars began to peek out.

"Do you remember the first thing you said to me?" Tường Vy asked softly, her head resting on his shoulder. "Back then, in the music room, I asked you to sing loudly for me, and you replied, 'I don't sing,' in a very determined voice."

Gia Bảo laughed and gently squeezed her hand. "I remember. At that time, I thought you were the most annoying person I'd ever met."

"And yet now you're still here, next to that annoying person," Tường Vy teased, looking up at him, her eyes sparkling in the sunset.

"Yes," Gia Bảo replied, his voice gentle, "and I've never been more grateful for anything."

He softly hummed the first few lines of "Unfinished Song," his voice ringing out gently and warmly, without any tremor, in the middle of the quiet schoolyard that was gradually sinking into the darkness of the autumn evening. Tường Vy smiled, joined her voice to his, and the two voices blended together, resounding in that quiet space, just as they had on the first day they sang together in the small music room and at the moment they stood on the city-finals stage. With the warm lights shining down, there was nothing to be afraid of anymore.

Tường Vy's song, which had been unfinished for many years, had now been completely written—not only on the page, but in both of their lives—a song that would continue to sound through many summers, many autumns, and many new chapters of life ahead, never to be left unfinished again.