Melaap House - [NHƯ AN] Episode 3

“Even a river hits the rapids. Why would a life be any different?”

The assistant remembered what Melaap always told them. Whatever comes, take it as it is—something that arrives, then leaves. Good days pass. Bad days pass too. That is all. Melaap’s little shop had seen too many lives, and held too much grief. Gather every tear shed here, and you could raise a palace under the water.

The woman steadied herself and spoke, carefully now.

“We have a marriage contract. He gives me the title of wife. That is all. No love. No money.”

Since when do people around here write prenups? I didn’t think they even held up in court, the assistant thought.

The more she talked, the more it rankled. Her husband was Tran Minh Lam. High school classmates. She had fallen for his face and his singing. A few years after graduation she became a university lecturer; he became a mechanical engineer. They ran into each other at an old classmate’s wedding, caught up, and somehow slid into a marriage that asked for very little of either heart.

Then his father had a stroke, and his mother was already frail. Gia Han was left to manage their care and the family’s rental rooms alone. The rent never covered the hospital bills. She carried the whole household and had almost no time left for herself.

When her father-in-law died last year, time suddenly felt plentiful. Even with hired help, looking after two sick parents had been brutal—especially those months in the ICU. She started going out with groups, took up running, and began looking after her skin.

Lately her husband had been coming home more. They were intimate again, often. He said his mother wanted a grandchild. Gia Han was torn. A child, to her, had to come from love. She had made her bed, and she would lie in it. A child was another matter entirely.

“Would you like my advice?” Melaap asked.

Gia Han’s brow tightened, as if to refuse. Then she thought better of it, and nodded.

“Come back in forty-five to sixty days. You’ve been pulling cards far too often; push any further and the signs will only blur. Live your days. When you return, I’ll help you find the answer.”

Gia Han sat dazed, finished her tea, and left without another word.

“Some university lecturer. With an attitude like that…” the assistant muttered.

“What did you make of her?” Melaap asked.

“Something’s off. Soft one moment, sharp the next—almost wild at times. I wouldn’t trust her,” the assistant said, clearing the tea table.

“Her Life Path is probably a 7 or an 8. Whatever she says, she already knows her answer. The trouble with knowing the ending first is the itch to dress it up, so the choice feels bigger than it is. And remember: read too often, and read badly, and a person grows restless, short-tempered, easy to tip.”

Melaap spoke as wrote, then gathered the decks and went to the door.

The woman in the plaid shirt was still there. Melaap stepped out and greeted her. She looked a little flustered, but not unhappy. Melaap had that kind of presence—quiet, steady. Hard to stay angry at.

Melaap handed her a small pot of bamboo, took a pen, and wrote: “For Nhu An, with warmth.”