Chapter Text

Chapter One — The Stranger

She was running along the beach.

The wind tangled her hair, weaving it into a future problem. She had it tied back, damp with seawater and long since neglected.

She ran almost every day. That was how she spent her afternoons: first, she swam to the cove and back, then she ran around the entire island.

Not that it was any great feat. This forgotten little piece of land could hardly boast an impressive size.

But it was enough.

She had hated sports once.

Actually, she still hated them. She had simply discovered that the only way not to lose her mind in the endless silence and absolute solitude was to do something.

Move.

Search.

Gather.

Explore.

Even though there wasn’t much left to discover.

In the mornings, before the heat became unbearable, she searched for food, carried water, cooked, and cleaned. In the afternoons, she went to cool off in the sea and then ran.

Whoever runs away survives.

Not that there was anything to run from. There were practically no predators. And best of all, no other people.

An introvert’s paradise.

But she had never considered herself an introvert.

She was simply a woman who had needed to escape.

The tide was low, and tiny pebbles squelched beneath her bare feet. Her skin had grown accustomed to it, so the pain had long since become nothing more than a pleasant massage.

She was about halfway around the island when she spotted something in the distance that looked like a boulder.

A boulder that hadn’t been there yesterday.

It could honestly have been anything. Ever since she had arrived, she barely wore her prescription glasses anymore. Especially not during her afternoon runs.

Besides, there was no better way to find out what the mysterious object about four hundred meters ahead of her was than to simply run toward it.

She hoped it was a nice piece of driftwood.

Or a large dead fish.

Those were at least interesting.

But that dark smudge could really have been anything.

The closer she got, the faster her excitement at finding something new began to fade.

The “rock” was starting to look dangerously like a human body.

This is not good.

She slowed down.

Murder?

A boating accident?

What if someone was looking for the body?

Panic began clawing at her mind, and suddenly she wanted to turn around.

Pretend she had never seen anything.

Change her running route.

Actually, stop running altogether and let nature take care of everything herself.

She stopped.

She couldn’t do that.

The poor bastard deserved at least a burial.

Her heart won.

Whatever—or whoever—it was, no one would ever find him here.

She approached carefully, as though the motionless body might attack at any moment.

A heap of flesh and bones.

You’d think we would have grown accustomed to death by now. People had seen it so many times in the media and in movies, read about it so often that you’d expect them to be used to it.

But a lifeless body was still a massive shock to the human brain.

A body that should be moving.

A chest that should be rising.

A mouth that should be smiling.

It was a man, middle-aged.

Probably.

It was hard to tell. Seawater was a bitch. He could easily have been twenty.

He lay on his back, completely rigid. His bluish lips were trembling, and he was still wet, as though the sea had just spat him out.

Wait.

His lips were trembling?

That didn’t sound right.

Dead people didn’t tremble anymore.

In an instant, she was on her knees beside him, leaning her ear toward his face. She nearly forgot to breathe herself as she focused on the rasping sounds the man was struggling to make.

All the first-aid lessons she had taken back in civilization suddenly vanished from her mind.

So the best she could manage was a lousy chest massage and a few breaths.

Fortunately, the man had one hell of a will to live.

After a while, during this disgraceful excuse for resuscitation, he coughed, vomited what must have been half a liter of seawater, and flung himself back onto his back.

There, with an occasional choking cough, he was breathing on his own.

Heavily, but steadily.

What now?

A complicated, yet unavoidable question.

She couldn’t leave him there. It was getting dark. At night, all sorts of creatures crawled out of the sea—creatures that certainly wouldn’t let him sleep peacefully—and then the tide would wash him away again.

If he had survived despite her rescue attempt, he deserved a second chance.

Awkwardly, she grabbed him by the arms, threw them over her shoulders, and started making her way back.

A journey that normally took her no more than an hour stretched into four.

A well-built unconscious man and a woman roughly half his weight were not exactly an ideal combination. She had built up some stamina through her daily exercise, but she simply didn’t have the strength. A lack of protein in her diet and the island’s poor nutritional resources weren’t exactly a recipe for building muscle.

She reached the shack she proudly called home, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.

As gently as possible, she lowered the unconscious stranger onto her bed and collapsed onto the floor herself.

With trembling hands, she reached for the bowl beside the jug of drinking water. She filled it and drank.

God knows she needed it.

She could barely keep most of the water in the bowl because her hands were trembling so badly.

She rested her forehead against her knees.

She needed a moment to catch her breath.

It might have been twenty minutes.

Or an hour.

Eventually, though, she got up.

She crossed the dark room she knew so well that she could probably walk through it blind and reached the table.

An oil lamp sat there quietly.

Ready to breathe life into the gloomy little cottage.

Several embers were still glowing inside the clay oven. She grabbed a handful of dry palm leaves and offered them to the nearly extinguished fire.

A moment later, they flared up like a tiny hope.

She transferred the flame to the lamp, and golden light immediately flooded the room.

As a reward, she tossed a few dry logs into the oven.

The stove crackled contentedly and began turning the wood into pleasant warmth.

Lamp in hand, she bent over the man.

She watched his chest rise, noticed his cracked lips and the occasional twitch of his body.

She searched for injuries, bleeding, anything suspicious.

Apart from a few scratches, bruises, and obvious dehydration, she was relieved to find nothing else.

Every now and then, he jerked nervously and smacked his lips, desperate for water.

It wouldn’t be his best sleep.

But at least it wouldn’t be his last.

In the dim light, he actually looked quite good.

Actually, he was damn attractive.

It was hard to say how much of that was reality and how much was the sea taking a toll on him. His face was red and swollen, crystals of salt creating strange textures across his skin.

And yet, somehow, he seemed oddly likable.

Trustworthy.

And a little sad.

There was nothing left to do but let the poor man sleep.

She took off his shoes and placed them neatly beside the bed. She turned down the lamp and set it on the table.

On the crate serving as a bedside table, she placed a bottle of water.

Just in case.

Maybe he would find it in the morning.

After this exhausting adventure, she went to bed herself.

Since her bed was already occupied, she had no choice but to grab a blanket and move to the deck chair on the terrace.

A little beach house didn’t sound so bad.

In reality, though, it was nothing more than a shack cobbled together from mud and wood.

For one person who had given up, it was enough.

What a guest would think of it was another matter.

She fell asleep almost immediately.

Even though there was plenty to think about.

Her body gave in.

Her mind followed right behind it.

The night was warm.

The deck chair was uncomfortable.

Her sleep was dreamless.

She woke before dawn.

The horizon was already lined with the first hint of color, and the muted sound of waves was interrupted only by thudding from inside.

The moment she realized what those sounds probably meant, she shot upright in the lounger.

Her back and knees didn’t even have time to protest before she burst into the room, barely illuminated by the remaining glow of the oven and the last traces of oil in the lamp.

Even so, she could make out the silhouette of the man, struggling unsuccessfully to get to his feet.

“It’s okay. Sit down, please,” she said in English.

One of the most widely spoken languages. After all, why shouldn’t it be enough right now?

He stopped thrashing from side to side, took a deep breath, and began to cough.

Her eyes fell on the bottle of water.

It was still tightly sealed, lying on the floor where it had been knocked over, waiting for its moment.

The man had meanwhile settled on the edge of the bed and was watching her with parched eyes.

“You must be thirsty. Wait, here…”

She slowly bent down to the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and just as slowly placed it into his trembling hands.

He didn’t hesitate.

He drank greedily.

Water ran down his chin. His entire body glistened with sweat, and with every swallow he came a little closer to recovery.

She knew exactly what he was going through. Once, she had nearly drowned while swimming in rough seas. She had swallowed so much salt water that she thought she would never be able to quench her thirst again.

For several days afterward, just thinking about the taste made her gag.

The man drank as eagerly as a newborn clinging to its mother’s breast for the first time.

“Slowly. You’ll choke.”

Too late.

He gagged and coughed up the water that was supposed to bring him back to life.

When it was over, he breathed deeply while she gently removed the empty bottle from his tightly clenched fingers.

“It’s okay. Lie down. You can drink again in a little while,” she soothed him.

With a gentle touch to his shoulder, she laid him down again, this time on his side, in case he threw up again.

Unfortunately, that was normal with seawater poisoning. Vomiting and endless thirst.

Fortunately, recovery was usually quick, and within a few days he would be back on his feet.

She placed a metal bowl beside the bed and prepared another bottle of water.

The process repeated itself for several more hours.

Eventually, the vomiting stopped, the man fell asleep, and she could finally breathe a little easier.

The drinking water she stored at home usually lasted her a few days.

Now, however, her supplies had been severely depleted.

So she took the large canisters and headed into the forest, following the river upstream—the island’s only source of fresh water—until she reached the spring, where the water was best.

So clean she didn’t even need to boil it.

She hadn’t even noticed it in all the chaos, but she was still wearing yesterday’s sweaty swimsuit, with a tunic over it. Her hair was tangled from the sea, and she hadn’t used the toilet or eaten anything in about twelve hours.

Funny how adrenaline could push your physical abilities forward while pushing your bodily needs to the back of your mind.

The river began among rocks about three meters above the ground, breaking into a cascade of waterfalls over several rocky ledges before gathering in a pool below and continuing deeper into the forest.

When you’re alone on a tropical island, this is your bathroom.

The jungle on the left is your pantry, the jungle on the right is your toilet, and you can walk around naked pretty much anywhere.

She undressed, untied the knot in her hair—which hadn’t moved anywhere anyway—and stepped into the pool.

The forest hummed rhythmically with birdsong, the tiny footsteps of insects and other creatures, and the rustling of branches.

She washed away the worst of what had happened to her yesterday, filled the canisters, and headed back with the heavy load.

The journey there was always easier.

On the way back, the weight really made itself known.

Still, she was home within two hours.

The man was resting motionlessly.

Breathing calmly. Not twitching. Not choking on vomit.

The woman felt a huge wave of relief.

She carefully set the containers down and quietly walked past him.

The stove was empty again, the embers barely glowing.

She grabbed a bundle of dry leaves and, with a few comforting breaths, offered the nearly extinguished fire a new life.

After a few attempts, the kindling caught.

She added a few more sticks, and soon the fire was burning at full strength again.

Survival in the wilderness was basically a matter of finding water and coaxing a fire into behaving, because fire was one hell of a moody creature.

The shack consisted of only two rooms.

The main room had a bed, a table, chairs, a bookshelf, and a small kitchen corner. The smaller room at the back served as a pantry, closet, and bathroom—if you could even call it that under these conditions.

She went in to change, brush her teeth, apply some homemade cream, and finally tame the atrocious nest on her head.

When she was done, she returned with the ingredients for a late lunch.

She arranged everything on the counter beside the kitchen corner and hoped she had everything she needed.

Then she noticed a pair of pale eyes staring intently at her.

Until now, she hadn’t had time to really look at him. In the dim light, she had either been handing him water or a bowl to puke into.

But now, in broad daylight, when he wasn’t drenched in sweat and other bodily fluids, she had to admit that he was a really handsome guy.

She might even have said he reminded her of an actor.

Back when she had civilization at her fingertips, whenever she saw someone in a movie who looked even remotely familiar, she had to immediately figure out where she knew them from.

Now, without the internet and with a slightly less obsessive mind, she could manage without knowing where she had seen the guy before.

“Hi. How are you feeling?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

She left the ingredients on the counter and walked toward the stranger.

On her way from the table, she grabbed a chair and brought it over to the bed he was still occupying.

He looked as though he was trying to speak, but the painful grimace and the way he clutched at his throat told her he was going to have trouble with that.

Instinctively, she handed him the bottle of water.

He gratefully reached for it with both hands, as though he still wasn’t entirely sure of his own strength.

He took a deep breath, drank more slowly this time, cleared his throat, rasped, and finally spoke.

“Mm… much better. Thanks,” he said hoarsely, but clearly, in English.

“Sorry if I woke you. If you want to rest some more, I’ll go outside,” she offered.

After so many years of living completely alone, she had forgotten how to be considerate of other people.

“N-no… stay.”

He stammered the words out and reached a hand toward her when she started to get up.

He didn’t touch her.

For a moment, neither of them made a sound.

Silence settled over the room, and a crease appeared on his forehead.

He’s probably going to start asking questions now, she thought.

She was just about to take a breath and tell him everything when he raised a hand, stopping her before she could begin.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

He looked away, as though embarrassed.

As though natural bodily functions were something a person should be ashamed of.

“Oh. Of course.”

She jumped to her feet and gestured toward the exit.

“There’s a forest behind the house,” she continued promptly. “Do you need help?”

Now she was embarrassed, too.

A strange little grimace flickered across his face.

Only for a second.

He said nothing.

“Help me stand,” he pleaded.

He sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, mentally preparing himself for the pain that was probably waiting in every one of his limbs.

She offered him her hand, gripped his arm firmly, and slowly but steadily helped him to his feet.

For the first few seconds, he simply swayed.

His body was weak, his limbs aching, still reminding him of yesterday’s trauma.

Eventually, though, he steadied himself and took a step forward.

He was unstable.

Every time his foot touched the ground, pain shot up through his spine and into his head, throbbing at his temples.

But he managed.

And she, without even realizing it, loosened her grip on his arm.

She let him stagger out of the shack and disappear around the corner.

She didn’t follow.

He needed privacy. For any man in the prime of his life, having an escort to the bathroom would be humiliating.

Her heart was pounding, and a heavy stone of anxiety settled in her chest.

She didn’t know why.

Perhaps she was afraid he wouldn’t come back.

That the only exciting thing to happen here in a long time had been nothing more than a strange dream.

As usual whenever she felt like this, she preferred to do something.

She stripped the crumpled, sweaty bedding from the bed and replaced it with fresh, soft cotton sheets.

Pleasant to the touch, smelling of dried grass and the sea.

She wiped the floor in front of the bed with a damp cloth one more time, just to be sure, as she regularly did throughout the night he was sick.

She might have been far from civilization, but she hadn’t given up her hygiene habits.

The only compromise she had been willing to make was replacing conventional cleaning products with ones she mixed herself.

Nervously, she glanced toward the door.

The stranger still hadn’t returned.

She couldn’t help it.

She needed to know that what had happened over the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been a hallucination.

A figment of the imagination of a woman who had gone mad from loneliness.

She stared at the entrance for far too long.

For a moment, she even forgot to breathe when she finally heard footsteps on the stone beach.

Uneven, uncertain, scraping slightly as the man shifted more weight onto one leg.

Finally, his figure appeared in the doorway.

Like a picture of hope.

And she finally released the breath she had been holding.

The man was breathing heavily, as though he had just run a marathon.

He leaned against the doorframe and stared at the woman standing in the middle of the room in disbelief.

She had no idea what to make of his expression.

Confusion was written all over it.

And betrayal.

Did he really deserve to look at her like that?

Had she thrown him onto the beach?

Had she ordered the sea to steal his innocence and settle inside his lungs?

No.

“Is this some kind of reality show? Where are the cameras?” he asked.

Just a second ago, she had been ready to argue, but then she understood.

All she had in front of her was a man who was frightened, confused, and incapable of accepting the fact that he might never see the people he loved again.

“No. This isn’t a show. This is reality,” she said calmly and evenly.

She didn’t want him to suspect, even for a second, that she was making fun of him.

This was serious.

And the sooner he understood what was happening, the better.

“So where are we? Is there anyone else here? How do I get home?”

A torrent of questions came pouring out.

Despair and panic threaded through his voice. His body language suggested he was on the verge of breaking down.

“Sit down first.”

She gestured toward the chair still standing motionless in the corner by the dining table and pulled the other one closer—the one that had been standing in the middle of the room beside the bed.

Before sitting down, she tossed a few logs into the stove.

It complained, but eventually accepted the offering.

She settled into one of the chairs and waited for the man to join her.

It took him longer than it should have.

He was probably considering whether the woman was messing with him, whether she would let him escape, or whether he could overpower her.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for something sharp in case he had to fight for his life again.

Then he looked at the woman, who had placed both palms on the table and was sitting rigidly still.

Would he win?

The woman was small, thin.

She looked tough, but fragile.

Eventually, he sat down opposite her.

With his back to the entrance, so he could bolt at any moment.

“See that red circle? That’s my island.”

She pointed to the nautical map hanging conveniently above the table.

The man raised one eyebrow in question.

He didn’t have to say anything.

“I bought an island so I could live here and then die here.”

The explanation did nothing to make things clearer.

The man didn’t even bother arguing about how absurd it sounded.

The moment he looked into her face, he was certain of how truthful her words were.

There was immense pain in her eyes.

Loneliness.

Torment.

And nothing he had seen so far suggested there was anyone else around.

“It’s just me. This is my home, and we’re hundreds of miles of ocean away from civilization,” she continued, even though he hadn’t asked.

It was clear he was struggling with it.

Wrestling with his own mind, because this simply couldn’t be true.

This only happened in fiction.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She watched him anxiously, waiting to see whether he would collapse or hold himself together.

For one person, especially someone who hadn’t chosen it, this might simply be too much to swallow.

He remained silent for a long time, absorbing the little information he had so far.

Though the weight of that information was immeasurable.