A The next morning, after their tasks were done, the three of them sat under the large tree in the garden. Minh took out his sheet of paper — the notes he had copied from the journal — and unfolded it slowly. “I want to read through this again,” he said quietly. “Together, this time.” Toan settled against the trunk of the tree. Anh sat on his stone. The garden was still. A small bird moved softly through the high branches above them.

B Minh began with the early entries, reading aloud in a calm, steady voice. In the beginning, the scholars had worked steadily (steadily means doing something at a good, even pace — not too fast and not too slow — always moving forward) — carrying books carefully up the hill, building the shelves slowly, writing their notes neatly each evening. “They were happy here,” Toan said. “You can hear it in the words.” Minh nodded slowly. “For a long time,” he said.

C Then Minh read Day 156 aloud. His voice changed — not much, just slightly. Anh noticed. “Something is wrong outside the walls.” Toan looked up. “What does urgent mean?” he asked suddenly. Minh began to answer, but Anh got there first. “It is like the bell in the morning,” he said slowly, “when you hear it and you are not ready yet. That feeling — you must move now, not later.” Toan’s eyes opened wider. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. Urgent.” After Day 156, the entries were shorter. The handwriting was pressed harder into the paper — written more quickly, as if the writer did not have time to sit and think.

D Minh read the last two entries very carefully. Day 180. Then the ink mark of Day 181. When he finished, he folded the paper gently and was quiet for a long time. A leaf fell slowly from the tree above them and landed on the path. Finally, Toan asked: “What do you think happened to them?”

E Minh looked at the folded paper in his hands. “They left,” he said simply. “Quickly, I think — not slowly. Look at Day 181. The pen moved — and then it stopped. Nobody puts their pen down slowly and walks away. You stop suddenly, when you have no choice.” Anh thought about the twelve scholars — arriving carefully, working steadily, reading quietly in their hidden room. And then: suddenly gone.

F “Do you think they wanted to come back?” Anh asked. Minh looked at him carefully. “They left all the books,” he said. “Every single one.” A pause. “People who leave forever do not make careful plans to return.” The three of them sat quietly under the tree for a while. Above them the leaves moved gently in the warm air. Somewhere in the wall behind the plants, the library waited — silently, patiently — as it had been waiting for a very long time.