Outside, the street shimmered in the heat—bicycles coasting by, the occasional shout of a fruit seller echoing down the alley. And still the waited for the first customer of the day.
Inside, everything was ready:
Clean towels folded like lotus petals.
Oil warm in ceramic bowls.
Lemongrass steam gently rising from a clay pot near the foot basins.
But the massage beds were empty.
Two tourists glanced in. One whispered to the other, shook her head. They kept walking.
Thảo gave a soft, automatic smile. Then looked away. No disappointment, just habit. She’d been sitting there since noon.
“Chắc khách đi ăn trưa hết rồi,” said her coworker from the doorway. “Maybe everyone’s gone to lunch.”
Thảo nodded, not answering. She was used to this quiet hour—where the world moved just a little too fast, and she moved just a little too patiently. She took a sip from her mug of cold artichoke tea.
Watched a girl in an áo dài pose for a photo under lanterns.
Soon, someone tired from walking would come. A tourist rubbing their shoulders. A couple asking about hot stones. A mother wanting to rest her swollen feet. And when they did, she’d rise—not rushed, but steady. Offer tea. Ask softly, “Foot or full body, chị?”
But for now, she sat.
Waiting, not idle—
just ready.
In the golden hush of Hội An,
between footsteps and small blessings.