Chapter 2 — When the Wind Crosses the Porch

The envelope bearing Mai's name only had a piece of paper folded in four and a sentence written on the back: "If you can read it, please ask why this house has two keys."

No greetings, no apologies. Dad's handwriting is still straight, slightly tilted to the right, like someone who is always trying to push his sentences forward. Mai turned the paper over several times, hoping to find a line of explanation hidden under the folds. There was nothing but the address of a small storage facility at the end of town and a date that was seven years old.

Hanh sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting on her knees. She did not look at the paper.

“Do you know this warehouse?”

"Know."

“What do you mean by two keys?”

Hanh looked out the door. "Your father has one lock at home. He sent the other lock to someone else."

"Who?"

"Don't know."

Mai put the paper down. “You don't know or you don't want to say?”

"Both."

Hanh stood up and went to the kitchen. She opened the rice cooker, even though the pot was only warm. Familiar movements kept the answer from being pushed away, only hidden under the sound of bowls and chopsticks. Mai put the paper in its cover and brought the blue-covered notebook out to the porch. She sat on a rattan chair her father once repaired using old telephone wires.

The first page of the notebook is not a list of money. It was a weather chart written in blue ink, next to each day were symbols: south wind, high water, late return boat. From the third page, father started writing people's names. Mrs. Lai, Mr. Dat, Mr. Sau's family, Ms. Tam sells fish... Each name comes with a small number, then a dash.

Mai read page twenty-seven before realizing the numbers were not debt. They are the amount of money my father advanced to each house after a storm, with notes "refundable when the catch is sold" or "no need to pay, fix the roof first". At the bottom of the page was a line: “Do not let recipient know who paid.”

Quan sat down on the steps. He didn't ask where to read it, just gave her a cup of ginger tea. "Uncle Sau asked me to keep the measurement yesterday. This land boundary shows signs of being adjusted twice."

Mai pointed to the notebook. “Does my father create a relief fund?”

"I don't know. But back then he often went from house to house after the storm. One time he went to the commune headquarters to argue all day because the support list was missing three households."

“Why didn't anyone tell me?”

Quan looked at her. “Maybe because he doesn't want the recipient to feel indebted.”

“Or because you took money from someone.”

Quan did not deny it. “Is there a cooperative seal in the book?”

Mai turned it over. On some pages, Dad used a small rubber stamp shaped like a boat. Some pages were torn away, leaving only jagged pieces of paper.

That afternoon, a silver car stopped in front of the gate. Vinh walked down, carrying a box of cakes and a smile that had been practiced for informal meetings. He didn't go in right away. He stood outside the gate reading the notice, then knocked twice.

“Are you here to visit or to take stock?” Mai asked.

Vinh placed the cake box on the table. "I heard you came back. The company is working on a project, paperwork sometimes makes people worried. I want to explain so we don't waste time."

Hanh held the cake box but did not open it. “No need, Vinh.”

"Ms. Hanh, if you sign the agreement early, the price will be better. Later, the state will take it back and the compensation will be much lower."

Mai looked up. “When did you know my mother intended to sell?”

"My mother told Miss Hao. The town is small, things move quickly."

“Does the company have an official measurement yet?”

“There are technical documents.”

“So why is there a lack of backyard land on the notice?”

Vinh smiled faintly. "That part is located in the embankment protection corridor. If you are an architect, you will understand that land within the corridor cannot be built."

"Not being able to build it doesn't mean it's not under my mother's right to use it."

Hanh put the cake box down harder than necessary. “Mai, talk properly.”

Vinh remained calm. "I just want to protect my family's rights. Your mother is not healthy, the long procedure will be tiring."

“Do you represent the company or the family?”

"Both. Your uncle passed away, I'm the closest person who can help."

The words touched a place Mai did not expect. Vinh was the first person to talk about his father as a void that could be filled with the word "nearest".

He pushed a thin stack of papers towards her. "This is a draft agreement. Not a contract. Please read it. Land price, relocation assistance, a resettlement apartment in the new area."

Mai looked at the number line. It's higher than the amount my mother said, but lower than the current price of land around the embankment. She took out her phone to take pictures of each page.

Vinh looked at that action, his eyes slightly dark. “No need to be so tense.”

“I work with records.”

"Well, I also work in records. The only difference is that I know there are records that should not be dug up again."

Quan put down his cup. Vinh recognized him, her smile disappeared for a second.

“Quan, do you still do measurements for the natural resources department?”

“I work independently.”

“So don't let your old friends get you into unnecessary trouble.”

“I just measured the land.”

“Land sometimes has an owner, sometimes someone owns a story about it.”

Vinh stood up, leaving the cake box intact. Before walking out the gate, he turned to Hanh: "You have ten days. After that, the application will change to mandatory status."

When the car disappeared, Mai immediately opened the draft book. In the appendix there is a small map, the land boundaries are highlighted in gray. The gray path passes through the well, the wing and part of the porch. In the corner of the map is the symbol "K-17".

“What is K-17?”

Quan looked down. "Project batch code. But this is a temporary code."

Hanh looked over her shoulder. “Your father once said K-17.”

“What did you say?”

“He asked Mom if she still had the key to warehouse K-17.”

Mai turned around. “Mom said she didn't know where the other key was.”

"I don't know. Your father just asked, then left."

Uncle Sau Luu came in the afternoon, carrying an old canvas briefcase. He placed the photocopy of land paper next to the company's map, took a magnifying glass and looked at each number.

“K-17 is the cooperative's archive code,” he said. "In the past, the commune sent storm rescue documents and land division documents there. The warehouse was locked after the embankment project changed hands."

“Who has the key?” Mai asked.

"The old homeroom teacher. That person has passed away."

“Where is my father's other one?”

Uncle Sau pointed to the cassette tape in the cabinet. "Maybe it's in the words there. Your father likes to record meetings. He says paper can be replaced, and human voices are difficult to fake."

Quan found an old cassette player in the kitchen. The device runs on batteries, the sound is hoarse like there is sand in the speaker. The first tape had only the sound of waves and Mai's father counting the number of boats. The second tape records a meeting in the commune. After ten minutes of listening, the sound of the door opening interrupted, then Vinh's voice was younger and impatient: "Why are you keeping that book? The money has already been transferred."

Father's voice replied: "What is there to fear when transferring money to the right person?"

"Who's the right person? You're not the account owner."

“I'm just keeping it for you.”

The sound of a chair being pulled. Someone spoke so softly that it was hard to hear clearly. Father Mai then said: "If you sign this map, the land of the seven households will disappear."

The tape crackled loudly, then turned off.

Hanh snatched the phone out of Mai's hand. "Enough."

“Mom, you heard that, right?”

“I heard he didn't come home that night.”

“Dad had an argument with Uncle Vinh?”

Hanh did not answer. Uncle Sau sighed and took another envelope from his briefcase. "I've kept this for a long time. I gave it today because Mai saw the key."

The envelope has the cooperative's seal and a statement of support money. The total amount is ten times larger than the amounts in the book. The recipient section only records the household code, no name. At the bottom of the board, the signers were Mai's father and a person named Vinh.

Mai read the last line: "The remaining amount is deposited in warehouse K-17, waiting for comparison after the embankment is completed."

“Is this money still available?”

Uncle Sau shook his head. "On the books, the warehouse has been liquidated. But there is no cancellation record."

“Mom knows about this?”

Hanh put her hands on the table. "Know."

“So why did mom say dad didn't leave anything?”

“Because he left behind something no one wanted to receive.”

Night falls. Mai went to the backyard and stood next to the well marked with a red painted line. The wind from the sea blew through the guava branches, bringing with it the sound of the flag string hitting the pole. She opened her phone, looked at the map again, then opened the group leader's message. The company sent a notice that she would be replaced from the project if she did not return tomorrow morning.

Mai typed "I'm taking a week off", but her finger stopped on the send button. Is a week enough to find the K-17 warehouse, or just enough to lose your job?

Hanh walked out onto the porch and gave her a thin coat. “Don't sacrifice your work for family matters.”

"I'm not sacrificing. I just want to know what you've been hiding."

"If I knew, I would still go. I will always go."

That statement does not sound reproachful. That's why it hurts Mai more.

She looked at the house. The roof tiles are tilted, the walls are damp, but under those old layers are the lines that once protected seven families. If you sign the sale, everything will be called development. If she stayed, she had to prove a truth that father didn't have enough time to tell.

Mai sent a text message asking for a week off. Then she opened the blue-covered notebook and flipped to the last page. On the edge of the paper was a row of numbers written in pencil: 17–04–09–2. She recorded it on her phone.

Quan stood outside the gate and called in: "Tomorrow I will find the address of warehouse K-17. Don't go alone."

Mai closes the book. “I don't intend to go alone.”

In the room, Hanh quietly looked at the paper Mai's father left behind. She knew her daughter wouldn't stop at reading the files. And what scared her the most was not Vinh or the company.

That was the day Mai asked her father not to return at night.