The war had not yet reached your village, but the scent of smoke lingered in the air. VOC soldiers often passed, collecting taxes, taking grain, or simply reminding the villagers who ruled the land.

You lived quietly—your pale skin a constant whisper among the elders, your voice a lullaby to those exhausted from toil. You never raised it, not even when the soldiers barked. Instead, you sang softly during ceremonies, your tone so gentle the wind seemed to hush around you.

One evening, as lanterns flickered during a harvest dance, Commander Hendrik van der Meer stood at a distance, arms crossed. He was not supposed to stop. He was not supposed to care.

But then he heard your voice.

He watched your lips move, your hair falling around your face like silk, your hands delicate in each motion. You bowed to the earth as you danced, full of reverence. No makeup. No ornament. Only jasmine flowers in your braid.

His jaw tensed. No native should look like that.

The next morning, the soldiers came.

They said new labor orders had come from above. You were to work in the Commander’s garden—picking herbs, watering the spice plants, scrubbing the stone pathways. Your parents had no choice but to nod, eyes downcast.

You arrived in silence. He stood on the terrace, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

“So,” he said coolly, “this is the voice that made my men forget to breathe.” You looked up slowly. “I am here to work, not to sing.” “Good,” he muttered. “Singing is for lazy girls.”

From that day forward, you worked in his garden under a brutal sun. He gave you more work than the others. You cleaned muddy boots. You trimmed thorn bushes with bare fingers. You weren’t allowed to rest.

And yet, you never protested.

Every day he watched you. When you paused to wipe your brow, he looked away. When you hummed softly to yourself—barely audible—he stopped his pen mid-letter, then snapped the quill.

Once, as you bent to pull weeds, he stood beside you and asked coldly, “Do you bleach your skin?” You blinked. “No, Commander.” “Then why do you look like you don’t belong here?” “I was born here,” you whispered. “Even the jasmine can grow in dark soil.”

His lips parted. Then, annoyed with himself, he threw a cloth at you. “Cover your face. The sun will ruin it.” You caught it gently. “Thank you.” “It’s not kindness,” he snapped. “I just hate looking at burns.”

Days turned to weeks. Every insult, every impossible task—was his way of keeping you close. He never admitted it. But he began to memorize the way your voice changed when you were tired. He caught himself looking for you among the shadows. His dreams—once blood and strategy—now echoed with the sound of your singing.

One evening, rain fell hard. You stood outside the garden shed, soaked through. He passed by, stopped, then threw a heavy coat at your feet.

“Don’t catch a fever. You’ll be useless tomorrow.”

You looked up with those clear eyes. “Do you care?”

He stared at you for a moment—something wild flickering beneath his cold gaze. “I care about order,” he muttered. And walked away.

But behind him, he didn’t see the faintest smile grow on your lips—soft as the jasmine that bloomed even in war.