"Sometimes I feel like I died a long time ago—only this body keeps moving, while my heart never truly came back.
But this letter… this girl…
For the first time, I found myself asking:
Was this life worth it?"
— Mike, Island Journal
The sky was still gray when Jane pushed open the window. A moist breeze swept across her forehead, and the sea lay flat and silent under the early light. Chuuk Island greeted the morning with its usual stillness, but beneath it stirred the quiet tension of an imminent journey.
Originally, the three had hoped to fly straight to mainland China, but the visa process turned out far more complicated than expected. After some research, Jane discovered they'd need to stop in Hong Kong first to complete the necessary paperwork.
"We'll have to go through Hong Kong," she said as she closed her laptop.
"Another stop," George muttered, glancing at Mike. "You okay with that?"
Mike didn't answer. He simply nodded, eyes still fixed on the glass drift bottle he always kept by his side.
George shrugged, turning to Jane. "Just don't book one of those crack-of-dawn flights, okay? My old bones can't take it."
Jane laughed. "And here I thought you were Special Forces?"
Their eyes met. For a moment, the tension broke and a brief smile passed between them. But they all knew—this trip wasn't just about crossing borders. It was the turning of a wheel, a step deeper into the unknown.
That night, the ocean wind was light. And Mike had a dream about Maria and Mia—his first in a long time.
He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts pull him back into the river of a life he had never truly faced.
He was an orphan.
He never met his biological parents. All he knew, from the whispers of his first foster family, was that they were addicts—dead from overdose. His earliest memories were of moving from one foster home to another. None of them ever truly kept him. No one ever came in at night to tuck him in.
He learned early not to ask for too much—because anything that seemed to "belong" to him never really did.
So at seventeen, he enlisted. Not out of patriotism. Not for glory. But because it was the only legal way out of the place they called "home." At boot camp, for the first time, he felt the safety that came from rules and discipline. It was hard—but at least no one could kick him out.
That was where he met George—the first friend who ever chose to stand by him. Even after they were assigned to different units, they stayed in touch like brothers.
Around that time, he met Maria—at a diner near a base. She was a waitress.
Mike used to sit at the far corner of the bar, eating alone, drinking water, lost in silence. A ghost of a man. Maria noticed him. Every time, she brought him a cup of hot tea or a gentle word. Slowly, they got to know each other. She was bright, outspoken. He was quiet, reserved. She was sunshine; he was shadow. And shadows, too, crave light.
Eventually, they became lovers. Then Maria got pregnant, and he married her.
He couldn't say he truly loved her. He was just tired—tired of being alone. He had never been loved fully, and he never really learned how to love. Maybe Maria sensed this. They fought often after marriage. Many nights were filled with heavy silence and the sound of doors slamming.
Yet on the dusty battlefields of Iraq, he thought of Maria and their daughter Mia constantly. He wasn't a good husband, or a good father—but they were the only family he had.
In those years, Mike transformed from a shy, sensitive boy into a hardened war machine with empty eyes.
The first time he pulled the trigger, he couldn't sleep for a week. The dying man's groans echoed in his mind. Guilt coiled around him like a snake, but he had no choice. He had to keep moving. Over time, his heart numbed. He never joked about killing like some of his comrades did—but when the mission came, he didn't hesitate.
He didn't talk to many in his unit. Only Trent—a clean-faced kid fresh out of high school—latched onto him. People called Trent his "shadow," and Mike always protected him. In Trent, he saw a reflection of his younger self.
That mission was supposed to be routine—clear IEDs from the road to keep the supply convoy safe. The village was eerily quiet, with only women, children, and the elderly left behind. As the squad moved from house to house, a sudden blast tore through the front line. Smoke, screams, gunfire.
Mike spotted a child frozen in the road. He rushed forward—but someone pushed him hard to the side. A bullet grazed his cheek.
He turned—and saw Trent behind him, blood pouring from a wound in his chest.
Mike caught him. Pressed hard on the wound. Screamed for help. But all Trent whispered was,
"Live. Please… tell my mom I love her."
And then the world went silent.
Minutes later, backup arrived. The mission ended abruptly. Due to heavy casualties, they were sent home early.
On the flight back, Mike stared out at the clouds. His heart was nowhere to be found. Trent's body was on that flight, too. Same plane. Different worlds.
Mike didn't want to think. He just wanted to see Maria and Mia. To hold them, tight.
But when the plane landed, and other soldiers ran into the arms of waiting loved ones, he saw no familiar faces. Minutes passed. Then his phone rang—a number he didn't know.
It was the police.
"Are you the next of kin for Maria? We regret to inform you…"
It felt like falling into the ocean, into a silence so deep, he couldn't even hear himself scream.
He couldn't remember how he survived after that. He only remembered selling the house and car, sending most of the money to Trent's mother, along with a letter telling her she had raised a son to be proud of.
Then he closed his eyes, spun the globe, and pointed at a random island.
Chuuk. He hadn't chosen it, really. Now he felt—it had chosen him.
He came to escape. Not to heal. He wanted to disappear, to be forgotten. Many times, he thought of ending his life. But every time he picked up the blade, or looked out at the sea, he saw Trent stepping in front of him again.
His life was no longer his own.
But tonight, he didn't run.
He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling as tears slipped down the side of his face. Quietly, so he wouldn't wake anyone.
He cried for Maria and Mia. For Trent. And for that unloved, unseen child he once was.
He didn't know what all of it meant.
But when his eyes landed once more on the drift bottle sitting on the table, he felt something stir.
Maybe—just maybe—this girl named Mei might understand him.
She said she never truly lived. He understood.
She wrote the letter as a trace for her mother. He understood that, too.
She had been crushed by fate, and yet still moved forward.
He understood that more than anyone.
And suddenly—he wanted to know.
What happened to her?
Could her story… somehow be the way out of his?