It began with the weather, as these things often do.
The kind that makes plans feel provisional. Like suggestions made by someone who will not be held responsible.
Morning arrived under a low ceiling of cloud. Coron held its breath. The sky did not threaten. It simply refused to decide. You would have noticed how even the light seemed unsure of itself, dull and suspended, as if waiting for permission.
By the third moment of silence, she was already there.
She would have had impossibly long brown hair. Falling down her back in heavy, unbroken lengths, as if it had never learned how to stop. Hair that belonged to someone who had stayed too long inside her own thoughts. Her body was tall and balanced, shaped by movement and use. The kind that suggested sport, sun, repetition. Not excessive. Just capable. A body that knew where it was in space. The eyes were blue. Bright. The kind of eyes that are curious, grateful and eager to see more of the world.
She did not speak at first. She only lifted her eyebrows slightly, the question contained in the gesture.
Would it be clear?
You would have said yes. Or maybe nothing at all. Some days move forward regardless of the sky’s opinion.
At the harbor, the air smelled of salt, fuel, and rain that had not yet committed. Locals watched the horizon with the calm authority of people who knew better than to argue with water. The sea itself seemed unconcerned. Flat. Waiting.
The boat arrived without ceremony. Ten minutes, someone said, just enough time for doubt to dissolve.
As the engine cut through the bay, the mainland loosened its grip. Wind moved differently out there. Warmer. Less defensive. A thin blade of sunlight slipped through the clouds and settled briefly on her shoulders. She turned then, not toward you, but toward the light, and smiled as if the day had quietly chosen her. As if it always did.
The houseboat waited between mountains, anchored in a stillness that felt older than intention. The water spread around it like polished glass. No urgency. No echo. She stood barefoot at the rail, the long brown hair lifting slightly with the breeze, heavy and unbroken, devastated by the brightness of the afternoon. It fell the way something falls when it has nowhere else to go.
Her gaze moved across the limestone cliffs slowly, as though reading a language she once knew. You would have noticed how she did not reach for anything. Not the view. Not you. She simply let the place reveal itself.
Later, after the rooms had been explored and named without words, she paused near the doorway where the light gathered and thinned. The bamboo floor was warm beneath her feet. Outside, the water barely moved.
She reached back and loosened her hair. It fell all at once. Heavy against her spine. She stood there longer than necessary, as if listening for something that never arrived.
Then she began to undress.
Not deliberately. Not as an invitation. Just the quiet removal of what no longer felt required. Fabric slipped away and was placed aside with care, as though it might be needed again, or remembered.
You would have noticed how she did not look toward you, how the act belonged entirely to her. How the body revealed itself slowly, athletic and unguarded, marked by sun, movement, and restraint. Strength without display. The blue eyes stayed distant, fixed on something beyond the window.
She stepped closer to the light. The lagoon held her reflection briefly. Then released it.
Extended stories, unpublished images, and the private archive.
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