Episode 13: The Hidden Room
1045 Words
Nguyen An opened his email inbox out of habit. Not to check for new mail, but to confirm that the strange voice messages were still there.
They were.
No titles. No sender. No explanation.
But each file, each voice, each word Linh had left behind was like a piece of a puzzle. Together, they guided him somewhere far beyond memory, into a world of those who once wrote but were never read.
He still remembered Linh’s voice in the final recording:
"If you're still listening... it means I still exist, somewhere, somehow.
I no longer write, but I’ve left behind my voice."
And that voice wasn’t meant to be found.
It was meant to be heard.
An reopened the old leather-bound notebook Linh had once left behind. He had read it dozens of times—fragments of unsent entries, quiet confessions between blank lines.
But this morning, sunlight hit the cover at a certain angle, and he noticed something odd near the spine—slightly raised, slightly loose.
He peeled back the inner binding.
Inside was a small, neatly folded slip of paper.
"If you're reading this, then I was right to leave it for you.
There's a place I used to go, when I no longer wanted to exist inside words.
West Wing Library. Fifth bookshelf. Top level.
There's a loose panel. Push it.
But be careful—this place isn't for the curious.
It’s for those who truly want to listen."
An’s fingers tightened around the note.
“Truly want to listen.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. Then stood up and left.
By midday, the library was nearly empty. An's footsteps echoed across the cold floor tiles as he made his way into the far West Wing—the part of the library no one bothered with anymore.
The fifth bookshelf.
He counted slowly, passed through thick layers of dust, webs spun in silence.
Top level. He climbed a wooden stool and ran his fingers along the backboard.
One plank was loose.
He pushed it.
Click.
The panel slid aside with a soft groan, revealing a narrow, dark crevice. There was no light, no sound. Only a cool breath of air, like something had just exhaled from within the wall.
He hesitated.
Then crawled inside.
The space was smaller than expected. No more than three square meters. The ceiling was low. But someone had clearly been here, and for quite some time.
A thin mattress. A faded wool blanket. A wooden desk. An oil lamp with almost no fuel left.
But what made his heart race—was the wall opposite him.
It was covered entirely in notes.
Not random scribbles.
Handwritten pieces, pasted over each other, some layered so deeply the corners curled like petals.
Each one was a fragment.
"The day I stopped writing was the day my mother cried after reading my diary."
"I loved someone once. But he read my stories as if they didn’t belong to me."
"I wanted to live once as a main character. But no one ever let me."
Every line was a bruise.
A memory that had never been told.
And in the center, written in bold brush strokes:
"This is where the voices of those who no longer write are kept."
On the desk sat a small metal box. Its latch had broken.
Inside—dozens of USB drives, memory cards, handwritten labels.
One note lay on top:
"Each drive is a voice.
I didn’t edit them. Didn’t judge. I just kept them.
If you’ve come this far, please listen—and don’t forget them."
An plugged one into his laptop.
Over a hundred audio files appeared. All named only with dates.
He clicked one at random.
"Hi. I’m Quynh. I used to write letters to myself.
But after my little sister found one and laughed, I stopped writing."
Next:
"I wrote poems to my ex. He shared them with the whole class.
I still have them. But I don’t dare read them again."
Third:
"I only met Linh once.
She didn’t ask much. Just said:
If you can’t write it, record it.
Speak in your own language—it doesn’t need to be beautiful."
An’s skin prickled.
He realized: Linh hadn’t written to be known.
She had collected memories—for those who couldn’t hold on to their own.
One file stood out.
"Don’t Play Unless You’re Ready.m4a"
An hesitated.
Then clicked.
Linh’s voice emerged, as soft as wind through curtains:
"If you’re listening to this… then I’m no longer where you left me.
But I haven’t gone far either."
"An, I’ve listened to hundreds of people.
Each with their own sadness. Their own stories. Their own vanishing points."
"But with you… I didn’t dare listen.
Because I was afraid I’d want to stay."
She paused.
"I didn’t have the courage to be the person beside you.
But I hope… at least you’ll stay here,
and listen to what I never got to hear."
"If you keep writing…
Then these voices won’t disappear.
But if you stop…
Then I’ll be the last voice no one kept."
That night, Nguyen An returned to the clubroom.
He didn’t turn on the lights.
Didn’t open his laptop right away.
He sat in the dark, eyes closed, letting each voice echo again in his head.
Then, slowly, he opened a new document:
"Those Who No Longer Write – An Archive of Sound"
He typed:
"I used to think I was rewriting old stories.
Now I know—I’m the one keeping the voices for memories that no longer have keepers."
"Those who once wrote and stopped—they didn’t disappear.
They’re just waiting… for someone patient enough to listen."
Three days later.
An email arrived.
No sender. No subject. No message body.
Only a photo attached.
Linh—standing in a small library. Not the one from their school.
Behind her: shelves of handwritten notebooks, plastered over the walls.
She was smiling.
In her hand, a sign read:
"I’m still listening.
In this place—I’m the one recording the voices of those learning to write again."
Beneath it, scrawled in messy handwriting:
"To Nguyen An –
The last storyteller of us all."
To be continued...
- Writer
