Wind (a novel)

Chapter One - Retreat

Friday, 7:00 am

The rain had eased a little when we arrived. The old stilted house looked out of place, its newly painted pale blue veranda contrasting with the weathered surroundings. From where we walked, I could see it was spacious, decorated with a rattan sofa, a square table, and several sea-battered monobloc chairs, just like the three other structures neatly aligned in a row. This one was the smallest and farthest from the mainland, perched on a white sandbar several kilometers offshore. The houses seemed to float above the water, isolated in the middle of the desolate sea.

"There it is, ma'am," one of my guides pointed, "your cottage."

Thanks to the fortunate low tide, my guides had to drag the bangka more than 150 meters from the sandbar's edge to reach the house. But my eyes were fixed, my heart resolute. I had already decided this was something I needed to do.

Once we reached the cottage, the older guide deftly tied the small boat to one of the stilt columns as I slowly ascended the wooden porch. There was a gloomy air to the place. Black-and-white photos of its past hung on the walls, their details blurred in the bright morning light. Without thinking, I called out, "Anyone here?" Of course, there was no one.

I found the front door open and stepped inside. The main room was large, probably the living area, with two smaller rooms—a bedroom and a bathroom—in the corners. After a brief inspection of the decaying cupboard, I found two packs of instant ramen and three one-liter bottles of drinking water. Dismayed, I went back to the bangka to start unpacking for my three-day retreat. I checked my phone—no signal. This is going to be a long and rough stay, I thought to myself.

The rain started pouring again as both guides carried up five five-gallon containers of fresh water for my bathing and toilet needs. They placed them beside the window, and the younger guide fashioned a funnel from an office folder, positioning it to collect rainwater for one of the containers. Ingenious, I thought, admiring their resourcefulness. This should be more than enough.

"Everything okay, ma'am?" the older guide asked. I nodded. "We'll be back on Monday at 9:00 am." With those words, they left, leaving me alone in this fragile yet sufficient little home.

I glanced at the supplies I had hurriedly grabbed from a local roadside market: two kilos of rice, four ears of corn, some green vegetables, bananas, and a 1.5-liter bottle of soda. Only then did I realize I had forgotten to buy protein—and worse, drinking water. But I was suddenly relieved to have found the three bottles in the cupboard. Maybe I could boil some water from the containers, I whispered to myself.

Before unpacking the rest of my things, I checked my phone again—70 percent battery. Hopefully, the two power banks I'd brought would last me until Monday.

After arranging everything—the bed made with crisp linen and pillows on a mattress on the floor, the teapot and stove set up in a makeshift kitchen by the window—I sat on the porch railing, scanning the horizon. The only thing I kept in my backpack was his poetry book. My legs dangled over the light emerald sea. Water, water everywhere, I thought, recalling the lines from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which we had read together.

The ocean's beauty did little to distract me from thoughts of him. The grey sky seemed to reflect his image on the blue sea.

If only I could tear out my heart and throw it into the deep, then my pain would be over. The rain suddenly poured harder, the wind chilling the tears on my cheeks. I was soaked in an instant. It was then when tears became rain and rain became tears. It felt like heaven itself shared in my grief.

I wished the wind would blow all my tears away, so I would never remember this day. The day I cried because of him again. I wished the wind would sweep away all the memories—of the beaches we shared, the walks we took, the words he spoke. I wished I hadn't read his poems again, and just moved on with my life.

But I was drawn in from the very first verse, the way I had been when I read them for the first time. Even now, cold and wet, I still felt the warmth his words once gave me. How could something so simple touch me so deeply, express things I had only dreamed of saying? It made no sense, and there was no use in trying to find answers.

I remembered that night. A night when a simple "yes" or "no" could have changed everything. He had told me, "I'm so glad to know you still love me, but it breaks me to think that all we can ever be is a dead end." His eyes gave him away, as they always did. They laid his heart bare before me.

It was hard to believe that just last week, I had found my love again, only to lose him once more. Shattered. I was shattered—empty, without a soul. The hardest part of love is forgetting.

Before we parted that night, I had told him, "Make each moment worthwhile, for time is fleeting... like the wind. Our grasp is never tight enough to hold on to the innocence of our youth or the carefree moments we share in laughter and love. Live each day knowing we've lived it to the fullest, with no regrets—only wonderful memories and lasting impressions." I looked into his eyes and kissed him one last time before walking away.

When I read his poems again, Paulo reminded me of an old fisherman. He had hooked me that night, reeling me in—smooth and quiet. I must admit, though, I was an easy catch.