And then, that fateful night came. The sky over Hanoi broke into a violent storm. I remember I was on my way to bring him some food when I heard shouting:
"You filthy woman! Who did you sleep with?"
"Who I sleep with is none of your business! You're no better yourself!"
The door slammed, followed by the sound of breaking furniture, crying, and then the sharp crash of shattering glass. I froze behind the wall, watching the flickering light from inside the house.
And in that moment, the tragedy happened. Mr. Dau held an old knife in his hand, his eyes bloodshot. Mrs. Ha kept backing toward the corner, her voice trembling but defiant: "Touch me and you'll regret it."
"Regret? My only regret is marrying you!"The last words were cut short by the knife striking down. No one had time to stop it. No one had time to breathe. Blood seeped into the tiles. Mrs. Ha collapsed, her eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Mr. Dau froze for a few seconds, then let out a dry, broken laugh — the kind only madmen make — before letting the knife fall and sinking to the floor.
Nhat Nam rushed forward to catch his mother, his hands trembling. "Mom... Mom!"
But all he got back was the faint, fading breath. Thien Trang screamed, and he stayed silent — as if the cry had already died somewhere inside his throat.
When the police arrived, Mr. Dau was still sitting there, mumbling, "I just wanted her to be quiet. I just wanted her to be quiet."
They took him away and covered Mrs. Ha's body. Nhat Nam said nothing. He just held his little sister close.
Near dawn, I stood outside, rainwater running cold across my face. From that night on, Nhat Nam's eyes were no longer young. They darkened — heavy, as if they carried the whole stormy sky of Hanoi.
He spoke less, smiled less. When he saw me, he was still gentle, still kind, but deep down I knew a part of his heart had died with that rainy night.
The next morning, the sirens tore through the narrow alley. People crowded around the door of what once was a warm home — now filled only with the metallic smell of blood and chill.
I sat holding Thien Trang. The little girl had stopped crying, her eyes swollen, lips moving to call for her mother but no sound came out.
Nhat Nam was pulled outside, his small wrists clenched under the sleeves of a jacket stained with dried blood. He didn't struggle, didn't speak. When the officer asked, he only said one sentence:
"My father killed her."
His voice was so hoarse it felt like the wind just brushed past — cold and empty.
My mother came out to see. She glanced at me and hissed, "That family's cursed. The father's rotten, the mother's shameless. Don't you dare get involved or you'll drag bad luck home to me."
But I didn't stay away. I waited until they took Mrs. Ha's body away, then quietly followed Nhat Nam to the police station. In the waiting room, he sat with his head buried in his knees, shoulders drooping like a soaked kitten.
I handed him a towel and whispered, "I'm here." He didn't answer. He just squeezed my hand — cold, thin, smeared with mud and blood, but gripping so tightly as if the whole world would fall apart if he let go.
Days passed. The adults came to clean up, to bury. Then silence. The police left. Rumors spread — some said his father killed himself in prison, others said he got life.
But for me, what mattered was that from that day on, Nhat Nam never smiled again.
He stayed at Mrs. Han's place for a while. I often brought food and sat with the siblings. Thien Trang was frail, always feverish. Nam was quiet, always by her side, wiping her face, working odd jobs to help pay the rent.
Once, I asked if he hated his mother. He shook his head. "No. I just hate myself. If I had come home earlier that day, maybe…"
I cut him off, tears rising. "No one could've saved her, Nam."
He looked at me — his eyes cloudy, like the rain outside the porch. "Yeah, I know. But I can't forget."
End of Chapter 8