After a few seconds, the sound fades, leaving only the wind and the ocean again. I keep walking, and the quiet tells me everything I didn’t want to believe.
I thought leaving would feel like freedom.
It doesn’t.
It feels more like exile.
Chapter 2
Dane Gallagher
The jungle swallows Charlotte.
One second I can hear the faint crunch of sand and dry leaves. The next, there’s nothing—just the wind in the palms and the distant crash of waves against the reef.
I’m still standing where she left me.
Charlotte has stormed off before. Not often, but enough that I know the pattern. She goes until she cools down, finds somewhere along the beach to sit, and eventually comes back once the anger burns itself out.
This isn’t any different.
A soft cluck pulls my attention to the side.
Coral pecks at the sand near the edge of the clearing, head tilting as she watches me.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be back.”
The hen lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound and goes back to scratching at the dirt.
I crouch by the fire pit and pick up the spear again. I drag the stone along the edge once, then stop. It feels pointless now.
The clearing is too quiet.
It’s not like Charlotte talks much. Most days we barely say anything beyond what we have to, but this silence feels heavier.
I glance toward the path again.
Nothing.
She didn’t take much. It can’t be enough to start over somewhere else.
And that worries me.
Charlotte’s stubborn, sure—but she’s not stupid. Once she cools off, she’ll realize disappearing into the jungle isn’t going to fix anything.
The wind shifts through the palms, rattling the woven walls of the shelter behind me. I sit there a little longer, staring toward the trees.
Waiting. Even if I don’t mean to.
But the path stays empty.
Behind me, Coral clucks again, louder this time, like she’s complaining about something.
I glance back. “Don’t look at me like that. You know Pearl’s always been her favorite.”
She fluffs her feathers and hops onto a low rock, entirely unbothered.
Everything feels wrong.
