By late afternoon, the rain had thinned into a mist, the kind that blurs distance and softens sound.The road led gently downward into a hollow where water gathered in wide, still pools — and at their heart lay a pond, veiled by thin fog, its surface dotted with pale pink lotus blooms swaying faintly in the breeze.
The house beside it seemed older than the trees.Its walls were the color of faded clay, streaked darker where the rain had left its mark. A slanted roof of worn tiles sheltered a narrow veranda, where water dripped from the eaves in slow, patient intervals. Smoke rose from a small chimney at the back, curling lazily into the grey sky.
I had not meant to stop, but the sight of the house — so quiet, so sure of its place in the world — felt like an invitation.A narrow footpath, lined with moss and fallen petals, led to the door. As I walked closer, the air grew thick with the scent of wet earth and the faint sweetness of lotus. The pond stretched out to one side, its still water broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish beneath the leaves.
A woman stood by the doorway, sweeping rainwater off the steps with a straw broom. She looked up as I approached, her expression unreadable but not unkind."You can wait inside," she said simply, and pushed the door open.
Inside, the house smelled of wood smoke and tea.The floor was cool and uneven underfoot, the walls lined with small clay lamps, their flames trembling softly. Somewhere deeper inside, a kettle whistled — a sound that seemed to fill the whole house with warmth.
She poured tea into two cups without asking a name or reason. The liquid was dark and fragrant, steeped with leaves I didn't recognize. The first sip was earthy, grounding, edged with something floral — as if it carried a trace of the lotus pond itself.
Outside, the mist thickened again, swallowing the outlines of the trees. The woman set a lantern on the table, its light casting faint circles on the wooden surface."You're far from anywhere," she said quietly, not as a question but as a fact.
I nodded. "The road felt longer than it should."She smiled faintly, as if she'd heard that before. "It always does, until you stop."
A silence settled between us, comfortable and deep. The rain began again, light at first, then steady. It drummed softly on the roof, on the leaves, on the wide petals of the lotus flowers outside. The sound was unbroken, constant — like a heartbeat for the whole valley.
From the veranda, I could see the pond shimmer faintly in the lantern light. Drops struck its surface and vanished instantly, leaving only widening rings that never seemed to end. A heron stood near the far edge, motionless, its reflection long and wavering in the dark water.
The woman moved about the house with quiet efficiency, lighting more lamps as the day faded. The smell of burning oil and damp clay filled the air. A small brass clock ticked somewhere unseen, its rhythm steady, almost tender.
She brought out a bowl of rice and lentils, steam rising in pale ribbons. The food tasted simple and perfect — the kind that makes no promises beyond warmth. Outside, frogs began their evening chorus, their calls echoing faintly across the pond.
"Do you live here alone?" I asked.
She paused, thinking. "Not always. People pass through. Some stay a night, some a season. The pond doesn't mind who watches it."
Her answer lingered in the air, soft and unfinished. I looked again toward the water. The mist had begun to glow faintly in the lantern light, and each lotus flower looked like it carried its own small flame. The rain had slowed to a whisper.
The world outside was all reflection — sky within water, water within air. The boundaries between things had dissolved. I couldn't tell where the sound of rain ended and the pulse of my own breath began.
Later, I sat on the veranda, cup in hand, watching the ripples spread across the pond. Fireflies drifted over the surface, their light flickering like silent words. Somewhere nearby, a string of wind chimes stirred, each note rising and fading with the breeze.
The woman came to stand beside me. "When the lotus blooms, even the clouds stay still," she said, almost to herself.
I looked out at the pale shapes scattered across the dark water — the blossoms open and unafraid, their petals slick with rain. They seemed to float between two worlds: rooted in the mud, yet rising into light.
She turned to go inside, her lantern swaying gently in her hand. Its glow followed her for a few steps before merging with the warm light of the house. I stayed where I was, listening to the rain return — slow, unhurried, each drop a quiet note in the evening's endless song.
When the last of the tea had gone cold, I left the cup by the steps and leaned back against the pillar. The air smelled of earth and lilies, and the surface of the pond reflected both the sky and the small, wavering lights of the house.
It felt as though the world had folded in on itself — no beginning, no end — just the steady breathing of water, rain, and time.