Chapter 9 — Where Old Elephants Rest

A week later, Ho Quynh Anh, the female environmental reporter introduced by Tuan Khoi, appeared at the camp with a cameraman colleague. She is a petite woman but has sharp eyes and agile manners. As soon as she got out of the car, she shook Ha Lam's hand tightly.

"Khoi told me a lot about this place," Quynh Anh said, her voice friendly but still maintaining the necessary professionalism. "I want to do a thorough report, not only about the elephants, but also about your family's story and the dangers hanging over the camp. The public needs to know the truth behind the fancy advertisements of projects like Dai Ngan Safari."

Over the course of two days, Quynh Anh and her colleagues filmed every corner of the camp - the scene of Ha Lam bathing the elephants in the morning, the scene of Bay Kinh telling old stories under an old tree, the scene of Tuan Khoi giving a routine health check to Mun who was recovering from an injury, and especially, a long interview with Mr. Thach, who, despite his poor health, still insisted on telling the story of the camp's founding himself, even though he could only speak in short paragraphs and then had to take a break to catch his breath.

"I didn't set up this camp to be a hero," Mr. Thach said to the camera, his voice shaking but his eyes still steadfast. "I just don't want to see another elephant die of exhaustion in the middle of the road, like what I witnessed when I was young. Elephants give people so many years of service, at the end of their lives, they at least deserve to rest in peace."

That interview, when Quynh Anh broadcast it on her personal page and an environmental news channel with a large following a few days later, quickly spread, attracting thousands of shares and supportive comments. Many people expressed their emotion at the camp's story, many even offered to donate to support. For the first time after many stressful weeks, Ha Lam felt a positive wind blowing into the war that she thought she had to shoulder alone.

But at the same time, Hoang Kim's side did not sit still. A few days after the report was published, a rebuttal article appeared on a seemingly neutral news site but was actually sponsored by advertising partners related to the corporation, questioning the "financial transparency" of the camp, implying that the previous charity donations were "unknown how they were used", and cleverly repeating the old argument about "uncleared land paperwork problems".

"They reacted faster than I thought," Tuan Khoi said when reading the article, his face serious. "But that also means you're hitting the right spot that makes them worried. If they were completely confident in the project's legitimacy, they wouldn't need to react so harshly."

Ha Lam nodded, even though her heart was still heavy with worry. She decided to publicly disclose all of the camp's income and expenditure records over the years on the official social networking site, an unprecedented but necessary action to quell baseless doubts. Xuan Mai worked all night to synthesize and present the data in a clear, easy-to-understand manner, accompanied by images of specific receipts and invoices for each expense.

While the report was spreading strongly, Ha Lam received an unexpected call from the phone number of Chu Rinh village. That was the voice of an elderly woman, introducing herself as Amí H'Lim, a former neighbor of Ama Rin's family, calling on behalf of village elder Ama Not because he was not used to using the phone.

"Old Not saw the interview with your father," Amí H'Lim said, her voice slow, her emotions hard to predict. "He didn't say much, just sat quietly the whole time, then asked me to call you and tell him that he hasn't forgotten about Sao Mai's story, it's just that it's not time to say it yet."

Those words made Ha Lam stand still for a long time after hanging up the phone, feeling both comforted and worried. She told Tuan Khoi. He listened attentively and then said in a gentle voice: "Maybe this is a good sign, sister. At least the village elder knows the story you are trying to tell honestly, instead of having to listen to other people's rumors."

That evening, when the camp lights were turned off and everyone gradually went to sleep, Xuan Mai ran to find Ha Lam, phone in hand, face beaming. "Ms. Lam, Ms. Quynh Anh's report has had more than fifty thousand views, and several major news sites have asked for permission to share it again. There is a charity fund in the city texting to ask for information about transferring donations."

That news brought a real ray of hope amid tense days, although Ha Lam still maintained the necessary caution, knowing that public attention was also a double-edged sword, which could bring support but could also make the camp the target of more fierce attacks from opponents.

In the midst of that media storm, the relationship between Ha Lam and Tuan Khoi continued to grow silently every day they worked together. He completed the official survey report and sent it to the foundation with a long-term sponsorship proposal, but instead of leaving immediately as originally planned, he asked the foundation's leaders for permission to stay longer to support the camp through the media crisis, citing the need to further monitor Mun's recovery.

One evening, after work had calmed down, the two of them sat together by a small fire built in the front yard, a habit Ha Lam had kept since she was a child, when her father often lit a fire and told her forest stories before going to bed.

"What does your report say about the camp?" Ha Lam asked, her eyes looking at the flickering fire.

“I write that this is one of the most ethical and sustainable conservation models I have ever examined,” Tuan Khoi replied, his voice sincere. "Not because of modern facilities, because you and everyone here still lacks a lot of things, but because your heart is really in the right place. I propose the highest level of funding within the fund's framework, accompanied by a long-term technical support package."

"Thank you," Ha Lam said, her voice choked with emotion. "I don't know what else to say other than thank you, because you did more than what the job required."

Tuan Khoi turned to look at her, the firelight casting a warm halo on his face. "I don't do it for work anymore, Ha Lam," he said, for the first time calling her directly by name without the formal "sister" as usual. "I stayed because I wanted to stay, because I believed in what was being built here, and maybe," he paused, a rare hesitation in his eyes, "because I also wanted to be near you a little longer."

That confession, simple but sincere, made Ha Lam's heart beat faster. She didn't know how to respond, she just felt a warmth spread throughout her body, mixed with the confusion of someone who hadn't allowed herself to think about things outside of work and responsibilities for too long.

"I..." she hesitated, "I'm happy to have you here too, to be honest."

The two sat silently by the fire, no one said anything, but that silence contained more than any words could express. In the distance, the sound of Morning Star stirring in her sleep echoed, mixed with the sounds of night insects, like a background music witnessing the moment when two hearts, amidst the turmoil of reality, were quietly finding each other.

After a while, Tuan Khoi rekindled the stick to make the fire burn more evenly, then asked, his voice mixed with curiosity and shyness. "Ha Lam, you've never had anyone... I mean, in the midst of this busy work, have you ever thought about falling in love?"

Ha Lam laughed softly at that somewhat awkward question, feeling much more relieved after many stressful days. "There were also a few suitors when I was studying at the veterinary high school in the city, but no one had the patience to understand why I always had to rush back here every weekend, why my phone could ring at any time because of the elephants. Gradually, I got used to being alone, and didn't expect much anymore."

"What about now?" he asked, looking at her more frankly.

She hesitated, feeling the heat rising on her cheeks even though the night was cold. "Now... I think maybe I'm starting to believe that maybe there are people willing to understand and stay, instead of just looking at this life as a burden that's hard to share."

Tuan Khoi smiled, a warm smile spreading in both his eyes and voice. "I hope I can be that person, if you give me the chance." He didn't say anything more, just quietly sat next to her, letting the distance between the two gradually narrow naturally, without haste, as the slow but persistent rhythm of life in the mountains and forests of Chu Rinh had taught them both over the past few days.