The sun was beginning its slow descent when I left the main path and followed a narrow trail that wound between thick trees. The air had grown heavy and sweet, humming with the sound of cicadas. In the distance, I could smell mangoes — ripe and sun-warmed, their scent thick as honey.
The trail opened suddenly into a clearing, and there it was: a wide field dotted with mango trees, their branches bent low under the weight of fruit. The grass beneath them was golden, broken by patches of fallen leaves and the occasional shadow of a kite bird circling above. A breeze carried the faint rustle of branches rubbing against one another, like old friends whispering secrets.
I walked through the rows, brushing past hanging leaves. Some mangoes had already fallen — soft, bruised, their skin splitting to release an aroma that filled the air. Bees hovered lazily over them, their hum slow and contented. Every few steps, the ground crackled beneath my feet with the sound of dry leaves surrendering to the weight of another day.
Beyond the far edge of the field stood a house. It was small, built of stone and brick, its walls sun-bleached and cracked in places. A veranda stretched along the front, shaded by a vine of white flowers that trembled in the afternoon wind. The door was half open, as if someone had just stepped inside or never quite left.
The stillness there wasn't empty — it was full of something quieter, deeper. The kind of silence that belongs to lived places, where every wall has overheard laughter and rain.
I walked closer, my shadow stretching ahead of me. A pair of sandals lay neatly by the door, gathering dust. Near them, a clay pot stood filled with water, its rim darkened by use. A wooden chair sat on the veranda, facing the mango trees — empty, yet expectant.
The house smelled faintly of smoke and fruit, of stone that had soaked in years of sun. Inside, light filtered through woven curtains, scattering golden shapes across the floor. A clock ticked faintly on the wall, though its hands had stopped long ago. Dust motes drifted in the light like tiny ghosts of movement.
On a low table rested a metal plate — still holding the dried remains of yesterday's flowers, now brittle but fragrant. Nearby, a photograph leaned against a jar of marbles. The faces in it were faint from age, but I could make out three — a man, a woman, and a child standing between them. Their smiles were simple, unposed, the kind that doesn't fade easily even when paper does.
I didn't touch anything. Some places seem to ask you only to look.
Through the back window, I could see the field again — the mango trees stretching toward the edge of the world. The sunlight shimmered between them, thick and golden, the kind that makes everything seem both eternal and about to end.
A sudden sound broke the stillness — the soft creak of a rope. I stepped out through the side door and found an old well beside the house. A bucket hung from the rope, swaying gently in the wind. The water inside caught the light, mirroring the branches above. I drew it up, and the smell of cool earth rose with it. I splashed some on my face — the chill made me shiver, though the air was warm.
From somewhere behind the trees came a faint laugh — light, distant, almost imagined. A child's laughter, followed by the sound of a door closing softly. I stood still, listening. The field swayed, the leaves trembled, but there was nothing else. Only the hum of cicadas and the sigh of the wind.
Maybe it was the air playing tricks. Or maybe this house held its own echoes — moments folded into its walls, waiting for the light to wake them.
I sat for a while on the veranda, the old chair creaking faintly beneath me. The sun had slipped lower now, turning the world amber. Shadows stretched long and slow across the field. The smell of mangoes deepened, rich and golden, as if the trees themselves were breathing out warmth.
A dog barked somewhere far away. Smoke rose from what must have been a distant kitchen, carrying the faint scent of wood and rice. The world felt wider than before, yet also more contained — as if every sound, every smell, belonged only to this small patch of earth.
As the light dimmed, I stood to leave. I looked back once more at the house — the open door, the still chair, the curtain shifting slightly in the wind. A small bird perched on the windowsill, watching me as though I were the ghost here, not it.
I walked back through the mango field, the branches brushing my shoulders. The air had cooled, but the sweetness lingered — it clung to my skin, my breath. A ripe fruit dropped somewhere behind me with a soft thud. The sound echoed like punctuation at the end of a sentence I hadn't known I was writing.
When I reached the road again, the sky had turned the color of rust and peach. The first evening star appeared, faint but sure. The field behind me glowed in the last light — quiet, golden, unchanged.
I thought of the photograph, the still clock, the laughter that might have been real. Some places don't die — they just dream with their eyes open.
And as I walked on, the scent of mangoes followed me,lingering like a memory that refuses to fade.