Ethan’s fingers curled around the short paddle, blistered and trembling. He began to pull the raft forward. Each stroke felt like dragging a mountain. He worked in silence, too exhausted to swear, too hollow to pray.
When the raft finally scraped sand, the sound was so gentle it nearly broke him.
He fell out of the raft like a man falling out of a dream. His knees hit the shore. He kissed the ground once, not in worship, but in disbelief. Sand stuck to his wet face. He didn’t care.
He crawled into the shade of palm trees and lay there, chest heaving, the world spinning in slow circles. The island smelled of green things and sun-warmed earth. Birds called overhead. Somewhere deeper in the foliage, something small moved.
Life.
He stayed still until his heartbeat stopped trying to leap out of his ribs.
Then he stood.
Not smoothly, not proudly. He stood like someone rebuilding himself from scattered parts.
The island was quieter than it should have been.
There was a village, or what had once been a village, tucked between trees and the curve of the shore. The huts were simple structures, wood and woven thatch, but they were too neat to be ruins. Too intact to be ancient.
