Part 1: Names That Fell Off the Duty Roster
I still write in my journal—just not at night anymore.
Because I know… even the flicker of an oil lamp can be a signal for death.
Since my return, I was no longer assigned to special missions.
Now I worked in the supply tunnel—checking water lists, food rations, and gauze rolls.
A task that didn't need someone trustworthy—just someone awake.
And that was where I noticed something no one else had before.
Sometimes, names don't vanish because people die.
They vanish because someone silently crosses them out of the duty log.
The first name I noticed missing was Tư Lẫm—the man in charge of the rice storage on Basement Level 2.
His name suddenly disappeared from the shift list, even though I had just seen him the day before, carrying a water crate to the surface.
I asked the boy who managed the log.
He said:
"He was deployed to the front line. Urgent order."
But I knew… the front line was already choked off from supplies.
No one was ever sent there "urgently."
The second was Sister Duyên—a junior nurse.
Her name disappeared after a night she handed me a bottle of mercurochrome.
No goodbye. No explanation.
I knocked on the medical hatch. Hiền shook her head.
"No one reassigned her. No departure order was signed."
I pressed:
"What does that mean?"
Hiền replied softly:
"It means… she left on her own.
Or she was taken."
I closed my current journal and opened an old one.
Compared names. Faces. Positions.
I found seven names had quietly vanished over the past two months.
No one asked. No one searched.
No one ever mentioned them again.
As if… they had never existed.
That night, I didn't write in my journal.
I just stared at the dirt ceiling—where a thin stream of water seeped through a crack in the rock.
Each drop fell like a period.
Nameless. Soundless.
Part 2: The Meeting Without Minutes
I received the summons at 5 p.m.
It wasn't official—no print, no stamp.
Just a scrap of paper, folded in fourths, tucked into the pocket of my shirt hanging in the hallway.
"20:00 – Meeting point: Level 3A – no announcement."
Symbol: ⭕ X
I recognized that symbol. I'd seen it once in Cường's old logbook.
A circle meant "emergency meeting."
An X meant "do not repeat."
Level 3A was an auxiliary tunnel, shallow and still incomplete.
The entrance was narrow—you had to crawl sideways in places. I arrived at 19:58.
Five people were already inside.
Hiền.
Lâm.
A man I didn't recognize—shaved head, sitting cross-legged.
Another wearing glasses—likely from the deep-region communications team.
And… Cường.
No one spoke. No lights.
Just a candle, flickering weakly—its flame trembling like a soul on the verge of exhale.
Cường was the first to speak.
"We're all here for one reason: Someone's been reassigning people without authorization. Not through me. Not through any officer at the station."
Everyone glanced at one another. No reaction.
He continued:
"In the past two months, seven people have disappeared. No papers. No proof. And no questions asked."
I muttered:
"Because asking... gets you killed."
He nodded.
"Exactly. Asking is death."
I turned to Lâm.
"What do you know?"
He exhaled softly.
"I only know this—every person who vanished had some link to Tunnel Nine."
The air turned solid.
Cường pulled out a notebook—wrapped in waxed cloth, worn and frayed.
He placed it in the center of our circle.
"This is the original internal logbook. No one reads it but me—and one other person."
I asked:
"Who?"
Cường replied:
"The first person to disappear—Deputy Commander Hoài, head of security."
My body tensed.
Hoài—the quiet one, deep-set eyes, always carried binoculars even underground.
I clearly remembered the last time I saw him: standing by the mouth of the tunnel, staring at the sky. Saying nothing.
Cường opened the log, pointing at an entry:
"September 14. An operation to 'extract personnel without explanation' has begun. I opposed it. But the order from above came with the symbol ⛓ K."
The letter K—according to our old codes—stood for "Lock."
This order was used to erase someone from the system, leaving no trace.
Hiền clenched her fists.
"So someone… is cleaning up every trace of Tunnel Nine?"
Cường nodded.
"And not just that. They're replacing the people."
I asked:
"How?"
Cường handed me a personnel file form—standard issue, except the photo section was blank.
I scanned it quickly. Under the name line was written: T.T. – Engineering Unit
On the back, in red ink: "replacement for P.M – completed."
I clenched my jaw.
"So someone was swapped out... and no one knew?"
Cường said quietly:
"Yes."
The dead weren't buried.
They were replaced.
The meeting stretched until midnight.
No resolution. No voting slips.
Only one final remark from Cường:
"If anyone here is still alive by the end of this month, you'll have to choose:
Follow.
Withdraw."
Hiền stood, voice calm:
"I'm not withdrawing. I still have patient records. People still need treatment."
Lâm shrugged:
"I'm not leaving. My fiancée's name is engraved on my ring."
I gave a faint smile.
"And me… no one remembers my name."
So whether I leave or stay... makes no difference.
Cường stared at me for a long while.
Then nodded gently.
"Those without names… sometimes end up being the last ones left alive."
Part 3: The Voices From the Unmanned Tunnel Entrance
Three days after the meeting without minutes, I began hearing the voices.
Not loud. Not clear.
Just faint murmurs—soft as breath—echoing from the unfinished ends of the tunnels.
"Hey..."
"Is anyone there..."
"Open..."
At first, I thought I was imagining it. But when I closed my eyes, the voices became sharp—like someone whispering directly into my ear.
I asked Hiền.
She said three others had reported similar whispers in the night.
But all three had been transferred to the storage depot—no one ever saw them again.
I asked her:
"Have you ever heard it?"
She was silent for a moment.
Then replied:
"No. But… I dream of it."
I looked at her. Her eyes weren't the eyes of a medic anymore.
They were the eyes of someone who'd watched someone disappear—helpless to stop it.
That night, I lay in a supply tunnel—once used to store rations.
Alone. In total darkness.
As I drifted off to sleep, I heard it again:
"Tính…"
I jolted upright.
It wasn't an echo.
It wasn't a whisper.
It was a real voice.
Calling from the old tunnel route—once connected to the Level 2 supply chamber, now sealed off after a collapse.
I grabbed my flashlight. A combat knife.
I shone the light into a cracked section of the tunnel wall—where bricks had crumbled.
A figure flickered into view… then vanished.
I crawled in.
Inside was pitch dark, damp, reeking of mold and dried blood.
I followed the wall with my hands, heartbeat syncing with the crunch of my boots against the soil.
And then, in the back corner of the chamber…
I found Hoàng.
Thinner, sunken cheeks, hollow eyes.
He didn't smile. Didn't cry.
Just said:
"They took people."
Not to kill them.
But to preserve them.
I stepped back. That sentence... wasn't a metaphor.
"Preserve? What do you mean?"
Hoàng pointed behind him, to the tunnel wall.
I shone my flashlight.
There was a narrow crack—leading down to a hidden chamber.
Inside… were rows of crude wooden coffins.
Each marked with a name.
I looked closely.
Tư Lẫm.
Duyên.
Hân.
P.M.
And...
T.T. (crossed out — replaced P.M.)
My body trembled.
"They're still alive?"
Hoàng shook his head.
"No."
They were "sealed."
Not buried.
Stored—for someone to open when the time comes.
I gritted my teeth.
"Who did this?"
Hoàng whispered:
"There's a secret unit. Neither North nor South.
A third faction. Mentioned only in classified transmissions from Central Command."
I shivered.
The Third Faction—a term never officially recognized.
But in intelligence field manuals, it referred to independent groups, beyond any chain of command. Operating for their own goals.
I opened one coffin.
Inside was Nurse Duyên.
Cold. Unrotted. Wrapped in cloth.
Around her neck: a metal tag—No. 6 – Non-resistant.
I closed the lid, heart pounding.
Not out of fear of ghosts.
But the dread of knowing even the dead were now being categorized.
I turned to Hoàng.
"How do you know all this?"
He answered:
"I was once detained.
I saw them… sorting people.
Anyone listed in the old H.T. logs was marked."
Some were executed.
Others… were kept.
"Kept for what?"
"To remind those left behind…"
that they could vanish at any moment.
I said nothing more.
Just gripped my knife.
On the tunnel wall, I smeared three words in blood:
NO MORE NAMES.
Then wiped it clean immediately.
Because I knew:
If I left it there—someone would come by and add a name.
And it might be mine.
Part 4: The Door Closed from the Inside
After that night with Hoàng, I never returned to that tunnel chamber again.
Not because I was afraid.
But because I knew—that place no longer belonged to the living.
It was a temporary crypt, made for those who had once existed but were now erased from all reports.
I had one task left:
Find out who sealed those coffins.
And why they allowed someone like Hoàng… to escape.
I didn't ask Cường.
Because if he had known, I never would've found Hoàng.
Instead, I moved through the underground stations under the pretense of inspecting equipment.
I memorized every tunnel entrance, every whiff of antiseptic, every lantern with a freshly trimmed wick.
And then… I noticed something odd.
A door that was always closed.
The auxiliary tech room—once a medical supply depot.
No one went in.
No one came out.
No one mentioned it.
I tried the handle—unlocked.
But when I pushed—it wouldn't budge.
I kept watch there for two nights.
No one came.
But on the third night, I heard footsteps.
Light. Subtle enough for the sleeping not to wake.
I pressed myself to the wall, peering through a crack between two stone slabs.
A man stepped out of the room.
Wearing a North Vietnamese helmet, army uniform… and a red armband on his sleeve.
I had never seen that insignia before.
He walked with calm purpose. Too measured—like someone trained.
I followed. Through three tunnel segments. Down to the water level.
And then—at the darkest bend—
He vanished. Without a trace.
I ran back to the room.
This time, the door was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
The room was almost bare.
A wooden desk.
An oil lamp.
A brown leather notebook.
And… a small mirror.
I opened the notebook.
No words.
Just drawings—hand-sketched symbols, arrows, tunnel diagrams.
Some images were of people—but with no faces.
I flipped to the last page.
There was only one line:
"Each person keeps a name.
When they die—don't erase it.
Fold it. And seal it inside the box."
And I understood.
No one loses a name.
They're just folded away.
Folded to hide. To preserve.
Just like how a national flag is folded on a coffin—not to honor, but to seal away the past.
I slid the notebook into my shirt. Closed the door as it was.
The next morning, I handed it to Hiền.
She read it slowly. Without a word.
Then tucked it into her medical bag, and stitched a red thread into the fabric's corner.
"I'll keep this," she said.
"So that if I'm next…
At least someone will know—I had a name."
That night, Hiền left the tunnels.
For the first time, I saw her carry a combat knife.
I asked:
"Where are you going?"
She replied:
"Nowhere."
"I just want… to close a door.
From the inside."
I waited till morning.
She never returned.
I searched every tunnel. Called out. Asked around.
No one answered.
No one remembered.
Only me—I remembered she was once a medic.
Once stitched wounds without crying.
Once wrote names on white cloth soaked in blood.
I returned to that room.
The mirror—shattered.
The notebook—gone.
Only a strip of bandage remained—with a red stitch.
Sewn into the shape of a small door.
I sat down and wrote in my journal:
"They didn't disappear.
They just chose to close the door—
From the side no one sees."
Part 5: Those Whom No One Remembers
I used to believe:
The most terrifying death is a wrongful one.
But I was wrong.
What's truly terrifying…
Is dying without anyone remembering you.
After Hiền vanished that night, I stopped journaling regularly.
Instead, I began writing names.
One name per day.
Some days, it was the name of someone who had fallen in battle.
Other days, it was someone who had once given me a drink, or a burnt piece of bread.
Some days… I wrote my own name.
I didn't know why I kept writing.
Maybe to preserve memory.
Or maybe just to remind myself—
That I still remembered.
Lâm came to see me one afternoon.
No gun. No questions.
He simply placed a small metal tag before me—
The same kind I had seen around the necks of those "stored" in the wooden coffins.
Etched on it:
Number 19 – Replaced.
I asked:
"Who?"
Lâm replied:
"Cường."
I refused to believe it.
I ran to the command bunker—where Cường once stayed.
The door was open. Unlocked.
Inside… empty.
Only an old journal, a half-burnt cigarette,
and a folded letter.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Tính,
You always asked where I stood in this war.
I stood in the middle.
Where both sides blurred.
But eventually, those who stand in the middle…
must lean to one side—
or be erased.
I wasn't captured. I didn't betray anyone.
I simply chose to stop.
If you're still alive, go to Route X7—the old supply line.
There, you'll see…
I'm not the only one who's been replaced.
That night, I wrote nothing else.
Just one line:
"I will go."
Route X7 was an abandoned path—cut off due to tunnel collapse.
It took me two days to find the entrance.
The tunnel was dark. Smelling of mold, dry soil, and pungent antiseptic.
I crawled nearly two hundred meters—
At the narrowest bend, a faint yellow light glowed ahead.
There was the hum of a generator. The sound of dripping water.
And… someone coughing.
I pressed forward.
In a small chamber beneath the earth, I saw:
Three people—no uniforms.
A long table—covered in documents.
A map of the station—marked in red charcoal.
They didn't ask who I was.
They simply offered me a seat.
A man with a silver beard asked:
"What did you bring with you?"
I held out my notebook.
"Names. No reasons. No units. Just… names."
He nodded.
"That's enough.
Because we, too, only keep names.
No evidence needed."
I asked:
"Who are you people?"
He answered:
"Those who are no longer called by name.
And no longer need to be."
I stayed.
Not out of curiosity—
But because I understood:
This place… may be the only one left
where death isn't erased through silence.
I opened my journal.
Wrote two names:
Hiền – medic. Not buried. Forgotten.
Cường – held the line. 'Replaced.'
I closed the book.
Looked at them—
People with no ID numbers, no unit patches, no pay stubs.
They smiled. Without bitterness.
One young man in the group said:
"You know why we survived?"
I shook my head.
"Because we have nothing left to lose.
No orders.
No ideals.
No mention at flag-raising ceremonies.
Just each other.
And memories."
That night, I slept among them.
No bed.
No mosquito net.
No weapons.
But for the first time in months…
I slept without jolting awake.
The next morning, I rose early.
Opened my notebook.
I didn't write anyone's name.
Just a single line:
"I'm still alive.
But I no longer belong to any unit."
I am the one who still remembers
the names of those who are no longer called.