I swim silently through the dark water, the sky clear and bright above, the moon nearly full. At the beach, the white sand reflects the pale light like shards of glass, but I don’t linger here. I find the familiar route, cutting into the jungle, the moonlight vanishing above.
The sounds of the jungle are more indefinable at night—eerie, furtive. The skittering away of animals I try not to imagine. The crunching of leaves, the swooping of some nocturnal creature above me—a bird maybe, or something else entirely.
At last, I reach the small wooden sign:THIS WAY TO POOL.
Seeing it feels different this time. Alone. Without Clay.
A remnant of the world I left behind.
I follow the path until I see the empty pool and the thatched roof of the resort. I climb the steps, passing through the abandoned restaurant and down an arched hallway that leads to the lobby. I try to imagine the open-air space filled with guests checking in, kids dashing toward the pool, a busboy wheeling luggage down the hall. If the resort was still up and running, bustling with people, I could walk to the front desk and ask for help, tell them who I am, where I’ve been, and beg to use their phone.
Maybe if we’d washed onto this beach months ago—or years on the mainland—then I’d already have spoken to Nana and assured her that I’m safe, and Clay and I would be seated at the restaurant, ordering lattes and French toast, deciding what to do next.
But instead, I walk around to the backside of the front desk. Three computer screens sit dark, layered in dust, dead leaves strewn across the counter.
To my left, I hear a sound, tiny claws across the floor—a crab, most likely. But it’s too dark to be sure.
I slow my breathing, clearing away a section of leaves and placing thesheet of paper on the counter—only slightly damp at one corner—and grip the pencil in my hand. When I swam across the cove, I kept one hand above the waterline, carrying the items I took from the bedside drawer. Paper and pencil.
I let out a small sigh, then quiet myself, as if the jungle might hear me. As if I might wake Clay.
This secret thing I’m about to do. This tiny lie.
But what do I write?
What note will I leave behind?
Because if the sea decides to carry us away tomorrow, send us back out into the deep, this might be the last time we see land for months.
I close my eyes.
I tell my mind to slow, and when I press the tip of the pencil to the paper, the words form without much thought.
Ellie Wells was here
11 months after leaving the Faroe Islands
I pause, frowning down at it. Maybe I don’t want to sayleaving. It sounds voluntary. Although maybe it was.
I erase the words, making space, then start again.
Ellie Wells-Lockhart was here.
11 months after vanishing from the Faroe Islands.
I’m still alive.
Tell Nana I love her.
Tell James I’m sorry.
I read the note several times, repeating it in my head. I wasn’t planning to write my name this way. Using his name. But seeing it now—it feels like the truth. Ellie Wells-Lockhart: a woman who is no longer who she used to be.
I fold the paper in half, then open one of the drawers below the row of computers. It’s mostly empty, aside from a single paper clip and a flattened pack of cigarettes. If there had been a cigarette inside, I might have smoked it—for reasons I can’t explain. I’ve never smoked in my life, but the thought of anything from the real world might be enough to entice me.
I open every drawer along the counter, until I find what I’m looking for: something heavy.
I pull out the shell—a conch, cracked on one side, larger than my hand, with ridges across its surface, and a smooth, pink interior. It was probably used as décor, as a paperweight. Which is how I intend to use it now.
