Last night I stood outside an old house by a mango grove. The air was cool and heavy with rain. A soft lamp appeared on the floor, guiding a road of light no one walked on. The door opened by itself and closed with a shy sigh. In the corner, a voice spoke in a quiet breath, telling a tale from long ago. It spoke of a woman in a green shawl who waited by a wall and kept a secret promise. A pale face flashed at the window, then vanished like mist. Tiny bells moved on their own, making a soft, lonely sound. I stood still, listening, and felt the house keep a patient vow. When I left, the grove kept its mystery, and the night its watcher.