Discover with Saee

As you walk past the village, following the gravel road, just where the farmlands begin, your gaze is drawn to a quiet, boxy white house with a flat terrace. Its floor-to-ceiling windows open onto endless fields and mountains that turn soft and blue in the evening light. Crimson bougainvillea creepers frame every window, as if guarding the secrets within. At the entrance, a green wrought-iron gate is draped in jasmine, its white blossoms filling the air with a fragrance so sweet it feels like an embrace.

Inside the low white compound wall, a forest-green Mini Cooper rests beneath the fading sun. The house glows gold as the sun sinks behind the hills, and shadows stretch and sway in the soft light.

From the open windows, warm, lazy notes of jazz float out into the twilight. The breeze carries them beyond the mesh screen doors, where they mingle with the evening air, soft and cool against the skin.

She moves through the house like a dream. Barefoot, in a white off-shoulder cotton dress that brushes her ankles, her tall, curving figure sways to the music. A wooden hair stick holds her messy bun in place, its pearl ornament catching the last of the light, while loose waves frame her face. When she smiles, deep dimples appear, as if carved by some tender hand. She lights the candles, and their glow flickers across her face, making her almond-brown eyes glisten like dark honey.

The house slowly fills with the warmth of candlelight, the soft murmur of jazz, the sound of her low, easy laughter. She pours herself a glass of red wine and sinks into her favorite chair, the one by the wide window. The coffee table is scattered with empty gin and wine bottles turned into candle holders, their flickering flames casting shadows on the walls lined with books, plants, and small memories.

The breeze drifts in, carrying with it the scents of jasmine, wet earth, and freshly cut grass. It kisses the candle flames and caresses her cheek. She closes her eyes for a moment, drawing in the night, tucking her legs beneath her, taking a slow sip of wine.

Tonight, the house is hers alone. Below, the kitchen opens onto a mango orchard, and her bedroom holds an antique four-poster bed draped in white mosquito netting, the furniture old and familiar: cupboards, a vanity with an oval mirror that reflects the candlelight softly. Even the bathroom, with its stone floor and milky glass ceiling tangled in white bougainvillea, feels like a sanctuary.

Upstairs, the four en-suite rooms, each opening onto the veranda, stand empty tonight. Once, she had filled them with travelers seeking the same peace she’d found here, far from the world she left behind. Five years ago, she came here, after stepping away from a marriage that was kind, but without fire. Many hadn’t understood why she left—but she had known. She could live without many things, but not without passion, not without love.

And now, at forty, as the quiet deepens, her heart aches for what she once dreamed of. For the man who would fill this house with laughter not her own, for the arms that would draw her close and twirl her across this floor. For the warmth of another soul beside her, in the softness of the night. The solitude she once cherished weighs heavy, pressing into her bones.

She smiles gently at her longing, pours herself another glass, and hums along to “The Man I Love” as Billie Holiday’s voice drifts through the room. The melody wraps around her like the night itself. She raises her glass to the moon, hanging silver and soft in the sky, and takes a sip.

The world outside glows under its light, and sleep begins to claim her. She leaves the chair, blows out the candles one by one, and curls up on the sofa. Her hair spills around her like a dark halo, and a thin cotton throw shields her from the night’s chill.

As her breathing slows, her eyes flicker beneath closed lids, chasing the man she loves through her dreams.