Warmth.
That was the first thing I noticed—sunlight on my face, the rough texture of a straw mat under my back, and the smells: salt, grilled fish, and something faintly herbal.
My eyes blinked open.
The ceiling above me was wood—old, uneven, stained by years of smoke and sea air. Sunlight poured in through a cracked window, dust swirling in the beams like lazy fireflies.
I shifted. Pain flared in my ribs—not sharp, but enough to remind me that I still had a body. And that this body had nearly drowned.
A groan escaped me as I sat up.
"Easy there, jellyfish."
The voice came from the side—gravelly, warm, and a little amused.
An old man sat cross-legged by the doorway. A wide straw hat hung behind him on the wall. He sipped from a chipped mug, steam curling lazily from it. His beard was sun-bleached and bristly, like dry rope. His skin looked like leather left too long in the sun. His eyes, though—those were sharp. Watching.
"You've been out a day and a half," he said. "Thought I'd have to bury you."
I didn't answer right away. My throat was dry. I swallowed hard, but it felt like paper scraping inside me.
He took another sip, his gaze steady but not unkind.
"You don't look like a fisherman," he said. "Too clean. No calluses. Clothes are strange. And your eyes… they look like you got dropped here by a storm you don't understand."
I looked around slowly. The room was small—handmade. Nets, rods, patched sails, and a fishing spear hung on the walls. A kettle in the corner hissed softly as it simmered.
I tried to stand. My knees gave way almost instantly, and I caught myself against the wall.
The old man didn't move to help. Just watched.
"Still half-seaweed in the bones, I see."
"I wasn't… in the sea," I murmured. "I was in…"
I trailed off. The words felt hollow. Foreign. What did it matter now? Saying them wouldn't make anything make sense.
"…somewhere else," I finished quietly.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Just nodded once and said, "Happens. Sometimes the sea throws people out instead of swallowing them. Maybe it spat you out for a reason."
He reached over to a bowl near the corner and slid it across the floor toward me. Rice. Warm, simple, but fragrant in a way that made my stomach clench.
"You can stay a while," he said. "Don't have much, but there's always a bed and a bowl for the living. Name's Jiro."
I hesitated. My lips felt dry, my voice thinner than it used to be. "...Akira."
Another nod from him. That was all.
We didn't talk for a while. Just sat in the silence. The wind stirred through the open window, carrying the calls of gulls and the hush of waves crashing somewhere nearby.
Eventually, Jiro stood, brushing off his knees. "Come outside when you can walk. Soup's better warm than cold."
He left the door open behind him.
Outside, the island greeted me with quiet. A narrow dirt path wound toward the sea, where small fishing boats bobbed in the tide. Palm trees lined the beach. A rickety dock sagged in places, some planks missing. A goat chewed lazily on someone's thatched roof.
I stepped out onto the porch and sat down slowly, blinking into the light.
This didn't feel like a dream. But it didn't feel like home, either.
I rested my chin on my knees, arms around them. My clothes still carried the faint scent of smoke and Tokyo rain. But around me, it was all sun, wood, salt, and sky.
No phones. No sirens. No vending machines humming in the night.
Just waves. Gulls. Wind.
I didn't know what this world wanted from me.
I wasn't even sure I wanted anything from it.
But for now—just for now—I was alive.
And somehow, for the first time in years… that felt like enough.
To be continued…