Lena stepped off the tiny propeller plane onto the cracked tarmac, heat rising in waves from the ground. The airport was barely more than a shed with a roof, palm trees swaying lazy in the breeze. She was thirty, single again, and so tired of concrete and fluorescent lights that she’d booked the ticket on impulse. No itinerary. No expectations. Just seven days of sun, salt, and silence.
The taxi driver—old truck, no AC—dropped her at the edge of the beach road. She walked the last quarter mile, sandals dangling from her fingers, small suitcase bumping against her leg. The bungalow was exactly as the website promised: white stucco walls, red-tiled roof, sliding glass doors that opened straight onto white sand. Inside smelled like clean linen and sea air. Ceiling fan spun slow overhead. One
