At around 10 p.m., a fire broke out in the kitchen of Mr. Lam’s house in Bac village. The old wooden house with a low iron roof was filled with black smoke in just a few minutes.
His wife, Ms. Hoa, was working the night shift at a factory more than a kilometer away. The phone rang continuously — their daughter, An, only 8 years old, was at home with her grandmother.
The young woman’s voice trembled on the phone:
– Mom… there’s so much smoke… I can’t see grandma… I’m scared…
Hoa turned pale, threw her things on the table, and ran away shouting:
“An, listen to me, hide in a low place, don’t run, wait for me to come!”
On the other end of the line, a child sobbed:
– I… I’m in the closet, mom… there’s a lot of smoke outside… tell me to be good… then you’ll save me…
She screamed and shouted:
– Good boy, good boy, mommy is coming, don’t be afraid!
The villagers of Bac heard the screams and ran outside. The house was on fire. The fire had spread to the roof next to the door. The cries for help and the sound of the fire siren went away and then closer.
It took about 20 minutes for the fire truck to arrive. The whole village shouted to get water and break the door, but the heat was too intense. Ms. Hoa rushed in, stopped, and shouted hoarsely:
– My child is still there! An, open the door for me!
Only after the fire was brought under control did the rescue team break the burning door of the small room. In the corner of the wall, a low wooden cabinet was black and locked from the inside.
They opened it — inside, little An was trapped, her hands still clutching the phone as the screen lit up.
Here, the message that had not yet been sent:
“I am a good child, Mom… come and save me…”
Ms. Hoa fell to her knees, screaming silently. The villagers stood outside, all silent. An old firefighter turned around, tears streaming down his face, which was covered in smoke.
The next morning, as people were clearing away the ashes, someone found a phone that was turned off and had a cracked screen. No one dared to open it.
They simply placed it in Hoa’s hand — like a last message from her little son in the middle of the fire.