The Sound of Truth

(PLVN) - Nam decided to visit the social welfare center. He didn't go as a journalist. He was simply "Nam," a volunteer who talked to the children.

Listen, my dear... In this cold night.

Nestled beside you, the sound of a musical instrument!

(Tố Hữu)

The first news appeared on a large fan page: “A 10-year-old boy plays the guitar outside the hospital to beg for money for his mother's cancer treatment. The mother lies on a stretcher, about to die…”

Just a few hours later, the clip went viral across platforms. It showed a skinny boy, clutching a guitar bigger than himself, sitting in front of the gate of K Hospital, his eyes vacant, his fingers clumsily strumming chords… behind him, a woman lay unconscious on a stretcher, her head resting on a jacket, a blanket draped over her shoulders. A sad melody played, the wind rustling softly. The scene was like something out of a movie.

Millions of people shared the message with the plea: "Let's help her!". One TikTok account appealed for donations, providing the bank account number of "the baby's mother".

Two days later, the amount transferred reached over 650 million VND. But on the same day, another account accused: "The scene was staged. The mother doesn't have cancer. They are a mother and daughter living on the streets, pretending to be sick to beg for money."

Outrage erupted. People dug up old clips: the same boy, the same guitar, but this time it was "asking for money to buy warm clothes," sometimes "raising an orphaned sibling," and other times claiming his mother was paralyzed. The online community was outraged: "Deceiving trust!", "Paid for real!", "Prosecution is necessary!".

Three days later, the local police invited the mother and son to the station for questioning. They confirmed their identities but concluded that there were insufficient grounds to constitute fraud – as no one forced anyone to transfer money. The boy was placed in a child protection center. The mother was examined and found to have no cancer, only chronic gastritis.

The story ended in disappointment on social media. The crowd turned their backs as quickly as they had once celebrated. No one cared about the mother and daughter anymore.

Except for one person.

Journalist Nam stumbled upon the clip while on his evening news shift. He had been a journalist for over 15 years, witnessing countless cases of "good people unexpectedly turning into scammers." But this time, something made him hesitate.

He looked at the boy's face again and again – not with a deceitful gaze, but with a bewildered, melancholic look that he had once seen in his own younger brother's face years ago – when Nam's parents divorced, leaving the two brothers to live with their grandmother.

Nam decided to visit the social welfare center. He didn't go as a journalist. He was simply "Nam," a volunteer who spoke with the children. The boy's name was Tí. He was ten years old, but barely 1.3 meters tall. His hair was short, and his skin was tanned. At first, Tí didn't speak. He just sat huddled in a corner of the yard, his fingers fumbling in the gaps of his shirt, his gaze wandering elsewhere.

It took Nam three visits before he heard the first words.

"Do you have a guitar?"

"Yes. I can play a few songs."

"Uncle, could you play the song 'Little Stork' on the piano?"

Nam nodded. The fourth time he came, he brought an old ukulele. He played it for Tí. The boy smiled. His first smile.

From then on, Nam began listening to Tí's stories.

Tí was telling the truth. He didn't know what "scamming" was. His mother often said, "We're poor, we have to tell people so they'll feel sorry for us." And so, every day, the two of them would go to a different corner. K Hospital was a place where many people easily shed tears. His mother said, "We don't steal, we don't pickpocket. We just play the guitar, and if people feel sorry for us, they'll give us something."

Nam asked, "Did your mother force you to lie?"

Tí shook his head: "Mom said... if anyone asks, I should tell the truth. But if they don't ask, then I won't."

There was a silence between them. Nam suddenly felt his heart sink. That boy... wasn't lying. He just didn't understand the adult world . But then a detail startled Nam. Tí recounted, "My mother said: if I play the right cards that day, someone will give me money. Someone once told my mother that." Nam began to suspect. Who told his mother? Who arranged it? Why did it need to be the right cards?

He rewatched the viral clip. At the 12-second mark, there's a figure behind Tí – a man in a black jacket and baseball cap, holding a phone and recording, then disappearing.

Nam followed the trail and found a group of "social content creators" who had posted the clip. After several days, he contacted a person named M., the channel owner. Posing as a new collaborator, Nam struck up a conversation and heard M. say: "We don't completely stage it; we just find people with real circumstances and then guide them to 're-enact' it. The script is simple. After filming, we edit, add music, and it gets millions of views."

Nam asked, "Is there still money left to raise?"

M. smirked: "They're really poor. We only keep a small portion to run the business. The rest... the mother and daughter have to manage themselves."

Nam asked, "Who holds the account to receive the money?"

M. paused. Then he whispered, "The account belongs to us. Her mother is illiterate."

Nam was speechless.

Nam's article appeared a week later, titled: "When the Guitar Apologizes to Life." No excuses. No justifications. Just a journey—from a viral clip to the truth behind it.

No one was deceiving anyone. It was simply that the mother and son were being exploited. They had never understood the game of social media. Something unexpected happened after the article was published. A charitable organization approached the shelter. They offered to adopt Tí – on the condition that his mother learn a trade and establish a stable life. A small music center promised to provide Tí with a scholarship for formal piano lessons. A group of professional musicians donated a new piano to him.

Two years later, a television program invited Tí—now 12 years old—to perform at the "Street Children's Singing" music show. He wore a white shirt, his hair neatly styled, and held a guitar engraved with the words: "Music is my first home."

The host asked, "Is there anything you'd like to say to the audience today?"

Tí smiled gently and replied, "I just wanted to thank a journalist who believed that... I'm not a bad person."

Behind the scenes, Nam stood silently. The lights cast a gentle glow on his face. He didn't need anyone to know who he was. Because for a journalist like him, the greatest reward was having the truth understood correctly.

A few months later, a video surfaced on social media showing a group of people posing as patients to solicit charity money at a wholesale market. A fan page reposted Tí's story, but added a fabricated story: "After receiving help, the boy's mother escaped from the hospital, taking the money and running away with her boyfriend."

Nam didn't write a rebuttal. He simply quietly sent emails to each news outlet, along with evidence: the woman who was falsely accused is now working as a cook for a charity kitchen, preparing 100 free meals daily for impoverished patients.

Nam's former editorial office republished the whole truth—this time, with a line in bold:

"I apologize to those who have been hurt by the haste of the crowd."

And so, Nam resumed his familiar work – reading, listening, searching for small stories amidst a sea of ​​fake news. He didn't need spotlights. He just needed each small truth to be preserved – like the delicate sound of a guitar on a tin roof on a rainy day.

Short stories by Tran Duc Anh

Source: https://baophapluat.vn/thanh-am-cua-su-that-post552479.html