The rain arrived like a secret, soft at first, then drumming against the earth with a sudden insistence. Jennifer Lopez pulled her umbrella tight, hurrying down the narrow lane lined with leaning coconut palms. By the time she reached Villa Amparo, the sky had become a single sheet of dark pewter.
The villa crouched at the edge of the Mandovi River, its white walls streaked with salt and time, arches worn, shutters creaking in the wind. Even from the gate, she could feel it: this house had history, and it smelled of it's old wood, sea spray, and something deeper, almost metallic.
The caretaker's email had said the keys would be under a clay pot. She lifted it carefully, water dripping from her hair onto the tiles, and found a simple brass key, heavy in her palm. Her heart thumped with a mixture of excitement and unease.
Inside, the air was cooler, the scent of damp stone mingling with clove and sandalwood. She set her suitcase down and wandered through the rooms, noticing how the old azulejo tiles curled like sleeping snakes, how the ceiling beams bore scars of decades of storms.
Then she saw it: a letter, sitting alone on the dining table.
No stamp. No envelope markings beyond her name. Jennifer. Written in a hand both elegant and unfamiliar, loops curling like vines. The wax sealing it was a deep red, fresh enough to glint under the dim light.
She hadn't told anyone she was coming.
Fingers trembling, she broke the seal. The paper smelled of wet earth and something warm like burnt sugar mingled with sea salt. She unfolded it carefully.
If you are reading this, it means the monsoon has kept its promise. I am Arjun. I have waited through storms and empires. When the tide returns, so do I. Stay until the third night, and you will see me.
Thunder rolled over the river, deep and distant, but with a rhythm that seemed… familiar. Jennifer blinked, and a drop of rain slid from her hair onto the page. The ink rippled, stretching and reshaping itself as if the words were alive.
She leaned closer, heart hammering, and saw faint traces of a script she didn't recognize Portuguese letters curling into Devanagari, then vanishing as quickly as they appeared.
The Rain Remembers. Time Does Not.
Behind her, a door latch clicked, soft as a sigh. The air shifted. Sandalwood, iron, and something older mace, maybe? tingled her senses. Jennifer swallowed, half-fearful, half-thrilled.
The storm was only just beginning.