In the city's hustle, Lily's tale unfolds-a rift with her parents sends her seeking solace in a countryside haven. There, she meets Theo, a guide to this whole new world that she's unfamiliar with. Wandering through golden fields, exploring wind-whi...
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❝𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍, 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.❞
⋐⋑⋐⋑⋐⋑❉⋐⋑⋐⋑⋐⋑
Bora La Costa.
A secluded province, nestled deep in the countryside—the very thought of it had always been a distant echo in the periphery of my consciousness. The tales I heard held little fascination for me, until they decided, as punishment, to exile me for the final two years of high school to this quaint haven.
Two years. It sounded like a mere heartbeat, but the prospect of this rural exile loomed before me like an eternity. Gratitude wasn't exactly the emotion bubbling within; rather, a torrent of reluctant acceptance and the need to extend my thanks for the grand gesture of being cast away to live with Grandma in this provincial idyll.
Wooden houses, calesas as the common mode of transportation, and the consideration of a non-airconditioned relic of a truck—these were the instruments orchestrating my welcome to the countryside. The Bora Port, initially reminiscent of any other port, unfolded into a journey that felt like a regression through time, or perhaps a visit to a foreign land unbeknownst to me.
A myriad of questions swirled in my introverted mind, but as I turned to Grandma for answers, her absorption in the surroundings brought my inquiry to an abrupt halt. She, the custodian of memories and the one who had painted vivid pictures of this place, seemed unaffected by the lack of change. Everything, as she had narrated, stood frozen in time.
No towering buildings or asphalt-laden roads interrupted the sea of tall trees, and the locals, clad in attire reminiscent of bygone eras, donned washed-off dresses and farmer clothes. It wasn't my nature to pass judgment on appearances, being far from materialistic, but the undeniable and astounding change in scenery warranted a silent acknowledgment.
An hour-long calesa ride, and still no sign of the haciendas my family boasted of. They assured me of a tranquil haven amidst nature, but the disparity in advancements left me with an unsettling feeling about my impending education. The anticipated peaceful neighborhood seemed elusive as we ventured deep into the woods, far from the familiarity of town life.
A sudden sighting of a two-story mansion elicited an audible gasp from Grandma. Among the wooden structures, this property radiated an unusual sense of security and structure. The balete tree beside it, shrouded in Grandma's familiarity, cast a shadow of eeriness, offset by a charming garden that hinted at meticulous care by our unseen driver.
The prospect of walking into the mansion felt like stepping into a life-threatening adventure. "It never changed. Raoul, it feels like I just left yesterday," Grandma mused as the antiquated truck's noise filled the air upon our arrival.
Raoul, the family's servidor, walked alongside Grandma, their continuous chatter weaving tales of a shared history. As they disappeared into the mansion, I chose solitude outside, the large lettering 'Casa de Hermosa' beside the door—a title adorned with both beauty and the weight of my family's legacy.
