Part 1: The Dead Still Watch
I keep writing in my journal, but not to record events anymore—only to remember who's still alive.
I jot down every name, every date, every action—as if I'm the clerk of an invisible prison camp that I, too, am locked inside.
Since the incident with Tú and the liaison team, the tunnels have fallen into silence.
People speak less. The lights burn dimmer. And the cold beneath the earth—it feels like someone is softly breathing down my neck.
One night, I heard something from the document storage room—the one only two people are allowed to enter: me and Cường.
I crawled out. Quietly. Turned off my lamp. Slipped past the crevice.
A flicker of oil light spilled through the crack.
I waited. Held my breath.
Then... someone stepped out.
Not Cường.
Not Hiền.
But someone I thought was already dead.
Part 2: The Dead Still Watch
I froze.
The person who stepped out of the archive room… was Hoàng—one of the three liaison officers we had reported as killed not long ago.
Hoàng—from Quảng Bình, quiet, with a slight hunch, always carrying a tilted backpack.
I stepped out of the shadows, shining my light directly in his face.
He stood still, not flinching.
—"Who are you?"
No answer.
But I could see clearly: it was Hoàng—or someone who looked exactly like him.
I reached for the dagger on my belt.
—"You're supposed to be dead."
He breathed out softly and nodded.
—"Yeah… I was supposed to die."
I kept him there, pulled him into a dark corner. Told no one. Let nothing slip.
I asked:
—"Did you escape, or were you captured?"
He looked at me—eyes deep as night.
—"I was ambushed. When we reached the contact point, someone opened fire. Quân and Dậu died on the spot. I was wounded, crawled down a ravine. Then someone… pulled me out."
—"Who?"
—"Don't know. Wore a hood. Not our forces, but didn't seem American either.
They kept me there. Didn't interrogate me. Didn't hit me. Didn't ask questions.
I survived on a bit of dried rice, stream water… and a journal."
A chill ran down my spine.
—"What journal?"
Hoàng pulled a small oil-paper notebook from his inside pocket—the exact kind H.K. used to write in.
I took it and flipped to the first page:
"Phase 2 has begun. The third man will soon reveal himself.
No one must live to tell the story."
I flipped through quickly. Most pages were symbols, maps, coded characters.
But three letters stood out in red ink:
H.T. – Hoạt Tử. Station 7.
I froze. H.T.—a name I had seen before in the other notebook. A name I had yet to identify.
—"Where did you find this?"
Hoàng replied:
—"In a strange underground chamber. Must be their supply point. I took it and escaped. Took me two days to make it back."
I narrowed my eyes:
—"Why sneak into the archive room instead of reporting in?"
—"Didn't know who to trust. I saw Cường's silhouette, waited. When you didn't show, I came to find your trap-system journal."
I exhaled.
The truth was coming to light—but the web of doubt was tightening around all of us.
I hid Hoàng in a sealed crawlspace, where we used to keep moldy blankets.
Told no one. Just me, Lâm, and Hiền.
She stared at Hoàng for a long time, then turned to me:
—"If you keep him, others will see you as the traitor."
I nodded.
—"But if we expose him, he'll be killed before he can speak."
Part 3: The Nameless One in Our Network
Three days later, I left the underground base.
No farewell ceremony. No one to see me off. No questions asked.
I walked like an exile—but in truth, I was the only one left who could step outside.
Lâm gave me an old fabric map—stitched inside my inner shirt.
Hiền pressed two red vials into my hands—"If you get shot, stop the bleeding. If captured, swallow to free yourself."
I didn't ask. She didn't explain.
That was how we understood each other—no words, just silent looks.
I crossed three hills, two forests, and a valley.
No footprints. No wind. Just the beat of my own heart.
When I reached the abandoned bunker Hoàng mentioned, I didn't enter immediately.
I stayed outside the forest edge, observing for two days. Noting wind patterns, light direction, and night sounds.
On the second night, I saw a faint light shining from a dead-end rock—something impossible in a naturally collapsed bunker.
I knew—someone was still there.
I waited until 3 a.m.—when guards usually grew weary.
Crawled in, careful with every step.
Under the rubble was a side tunnel—not long, but deep.
I advanced without a light, feeling by breath and humidity changes.
At the tunnel's end, I found a sealed chamber—a folding bed, a flashlight, some military boxes, and a wall map.
I didn't enter right away. I waited.
Five minutes. No one.
Ten minutes. Still no one.
I slowly pulled out a small camera, began snapping photos—maps, pen marks, ammo boxes, water cans.
Then I froze. On the table lay a dossier.
The headline:
Communication System — Indochina Tunnel Line.
Code name: H.THỦ
I opened page after page.
Not typed, but handwritten in Vietnamese, using Saigon officer terminology.
The first paragraph read:
Since day X: Line 6 compromised. All communications shifted to Line 3.
Branch holder: H.T.
Documents delivered to C.T. every lunar cycle.
Exposure: neutralize, no mercy.
I went numb.
H.T. and C.T.—the same codes from previous notebooks. Now sitting right here, on a secret enemy's desk underground.
I was about to put the dossier away when I heard footsteps outside.
Someone was coming in.
I switched off my flashlight, drew my knife, pressed against the rock wall.
A shadow appeared—wearing Northern soldier uniform, backpack marked with our station insignia.
I held my breath.
When he stepped in, shone the light on the desk, about to set down a bag, I lunged.
Knife at his throat.
"Quiet. One word, and you're dead."
He froze. Didn't struggle.
I pushed him against the wall, shone my light on his face.
I was speechless.
It was the man I once considered a commander.
Anh Cường.
I trembled—not with fear, but disbelief.
"Is it you? Are you H.T.?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Just looked at me for a long moment, then whispered:
"No. I'm the one who keeps the balance."
I growled:
"You betrayed us. How many have you killed? Tú? The liaison team? The fake notebook? The ninth tunnel?"
He stayed calm:
"I didn't betray. I keep both sides from collapsing."
I shouted:
"What do you mean?"
He stepped closer, voice low:
"If only one side wins, this land will rot. Someone must keep the rhythm. I let some people go—so hundreds more survive."
I stepped back.
"What are you? God? The scales? Or just a traitor wearing ideals?"
He said softly:
"You've never held a national-level map. Never heard broadcasts from Laos, China, and France at once.
I have."
I raised my knife.
My heart ached like it was being scratched with thorns.
He looked at me.
No begging. No arguing.
Just one sentence:
"If you want to kill me, do it. But after I'm gone... you won't save anyone. Only bring death to those you love."
I hesitated.
Thought of Hiền, Lâm, Hoàng, Thành.
Thought of the dead, and those still writing letters, wrapping bandages, cooking porridge in the dark tunnels.
I put down the knife.
"I won't kill you."
He nodded softly.
"I knew you wouldn't. You're the last one keeping the diary."
Part 4: An Agreement Not Written in Ink
I returned to the underground base in darkness, without warning.
Not because I feared being followed,
but because I no longer trusted familiar footsteps.
The bunker door showed fresh dirt marks.
Someone had been in or out just a few hours before.
I waited by a young tree's trunk all night,
until the second watch finally unlocked the iron gate with a faint "creak"
that made my heart jump like a gunshot.
Lâm opened the door.
He looked stunned.
"You're… back?"
I nodded and glanced quickly behind him.
"Is anyone following me?"
"No. But…" Lâm stared hard at me, "You know already, don't you?"
I said nothing. Just stayed silent.
In that silence, he understood.
Hiền met me soon after, in the medical bunker.
She looked at me for a long moment, then whispered:
"Two people were recently reassigned. Thành and Uncle Hân from the technical bunker."
"By whose orders?"
"Anh Cường's."
I closed my eyes. My hands unconsciously gripped the edge of the wooden table tightly.
Thành—the youngest soldier—the one who gave me the notebook with H.T.'s name.
I knew... Cường had made a move.
But this time without guns.
Using a reassignment order—a red seal as bloody as blood—stuck to the transfer paper.
I asked Hiền:
"Do you believe in his 'balance'?"
She shook her head slowly.
"I don't believe anyone can hold both ends of a blade without cutting their hand."
That night, I opened the diary again.
Wrote a new page—not listing the dead,
but naming the living.
Lâm
Hiền
Hoàng
Me
I drew a line beneath:
The keeper of faith is no longer the strong,
but the one who knows… to still believe even when nothing is certain anymore.
The next morning, I went to see anh Cường.
No permission. No appointment.
Just walked in like someone no longer part of the system.
He was sitting, reading a summary notebook.
The oil lamp's light illuminated his gaunt cheekbones—a face that could stay awake 72 hours straight without blinking.
"You're back. Good." he said.
I sat down.
"I'm not back to stay."
He looked up.
"Then why are you back?"
I pulled out the map with three red marks from my pocket.
Laid it on the table.
"I'm here to make a deal. Not in ink. But in life and death."
Anh Cường leaned back and smiled faintly:
"A deal?"
I said:
"I know you're playing a two-sided chess game. You're not a traitor. But you make sacrifices.
And you think you're the only one daring to do so. You're wrong."
He squinted.
"Wrong?"
"Yes. Because you sacrifice others… but never yourself.
You sit here, hold the station, mediate, filter information—but you never go out to watch people die one by one."
"You think I never left?"
"I know you left. But not to die.
You leave to reset the board each time a pawn falls."
He was silent. For a long time.
Then asked:
"So what's your deal?"
I looked him straight in the eyes.
"You let me go. Alone.
I'll take the last document—the original contact list you hold—and bring it to the Command.
If I die, so be it. But if I return, the secrets you hide won't be 'internal matters' anymore."
He frowned.
"You threatening me?"
"No. I just want it to end."
He lit a cigarette.
The flame reflected in his eyes—no anger, no hatred, only a look… deeply tired.
"You know if I agree, I'm dead too?"
"I know.
And I know if you don't agree—all of us… will die slowly."
Finally, he nodded.
"Go. But remember…
I'm not a traitor.
I'm just the last one holding the line that everyone else forgot."
I said nothing.
Just walked out—as if walking through the funeral of the person I once trusted most.
Part 5: The Final Order Beneath the Sky
I left the underground base at three in the morning.
No one saw me off.
No traces left behind.
No official orders.
Only a folded piece of paper tucked inside my shirt pocket.
Written hastily with charcoal:
"If you don't return — I will keep writing."
– Hiền
I passed through three old tunnel alleys, four shortcuts only known to veterans.
Every ten minutes I changed direction, stopping to listen—like a cunning fox teaching survival among hunters.
The sky was still dark, mist covered the ground.
I reached the old communication point—the one cut off since H.K.'s exposure.
But according to the map I had, a "dead point" still remained in the system—the place hiding the last piece of data.
That dead point was an empty cave,
in the middle of a nameless, barren forest patch—
marked only by three dashes on the map.
I crawled in.
My hand touched stone cold as iron blade.
Inside the cave, there was an old tin box.
Sealed with barbed wire and a red envelope.
I opened the box.
Inside was the original dossier—contact list, planted agents, weekly routes—including the names I knew.
My hands trembled.
The name Hoàng.
The name Thành—already "reassigned."
And… my name.
Next to it a code: T-41.
I had never heard of that code before.
But it was next to my name.
What did it mean?
I took out the files, clutched them to my chest.
Burned the red envelope—its flames lighting the last glow inside the cave.
Leaving the cave, I ran towards the Eastern unit's communication point—the only place to safely report without intermediaries.
I had to travel three days.
Not a single shot fired. Not a single sound made.
The only thing I carried was the truth.
But… truth in war is not something everyone wants to hear.
On the second day, I was ambushed.
Not by American soldiers.
Nor Southern spies.
But by a group wearing Northern uniforms—without unit patches, numbers, or insignia.
I was captured. Knocked unconscious.
When I woke, I was tied to a bamboo post in a makeshift shack.
A skinny, tall man stepped forward, his voice hoarse:
"Your name is Tính?"
I did not answer.
He continued:
"I know what you carry.
You think bringing it back will change anything?"
I gritted my teeth:
"It is the truth."
He laughed:
"Truth in war is a luxury.
People don't need to know who killed whom.
They only need to know… who's still standing.
And who has fallen."
I asked:
"Who are you?"
He leaned in, whispering close to my ear:
"The last one guarding a peace no one ever dreamed of."
Then he turned away.
Did not kill me. Did not beat me further.
Just ordered:
"Release him. Let him go. But don't let him remember the way back."
I was drugged.
When I woke again, I lay by the stream bank, nearly 20 km from the communication base.
The files were still with me.
But I understood—I had been warned.
I still tried to return.
The communication post welcomed me like a man who had just escaped death.
They did not ask why I left, or why I was captured.
Only asked:
"Did you bring anything back?"
I nodded.
Handed over the files.
Three days later, I met a provincial official.
He read the files for an hour.
Said nothing. Showed no emotion.
Then he asked:
"What do you want?"
I answered:
"A thorough inspection of the Eastern communication system.
And… protection for those still alive."
He did not reply.
Only wrote one word on a paper:
"Filed."
I was stunned.
Not "Investigate." Not "Interrogate."
Just "Filed."
I left the office in silence.
No death sentence. No conclusion.
No one objected.
No names called out from the files.
I returned to the bunker, met Hiền again.
She looked at me—asked nothing.
Only said:
"Still alive, that's good."
I smiled:
"Not sure yet."
Because sometimes, living is the longest sentence.
That night, I opened the diary. Wrote the last line of the chapter:
I handed over the documents.
But the scariest thing—no one cared to read them.
I folded the notebook. Hid it in a wall crevice.
Hiền gave me a piece of cloth—hand-stitched:
"No one can hold hearts with guns.
But maybe with faith—even the faintest one."
I hung it by my bed.
Not to trust.
But to remember—there was a time, in war, when faith was smaller than a needle's head.
Yet sharp enough to draw blood.
…..
….
…
..
.
.