Daniel blinked awake as pale sunlight seeped through the worn fabric of the tent. The hum of the sea was distant now — a ghost of the storm that had brought them here.
From outside, Robert's voice floated in with unusual calm:
> "Daniel… coffee's on the crate."
That sentence felt like it belonged to another life — a time of rooftops, routines, and city traffic. Yet here it was, clinging like mist to the edges of survival.
Daniel sat up slowly, stretching his sore legs. The tent creaked faintly as he leaned out, reaching for the metal cup. The coffee was barely warm now, but the scent brought clarity.
He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle in his throat.
Day Three.
Still here. Still alive.
Outside, people were moving. The sound of leaves crunching, bottles clinking, and boots brushing the sand painted the morning's rhythm.
Robert's voice rang again:
> "Breakfast, everyone! Don't make me shout twice!"
They came together slowly — 23 strangers, united by disaster. A circle formed in the sand where the tent shadows fell. Food was served on a plates: a few toasted bread slices, some boiled eggs. The portions were small, but they shared it without complaint.
Robert had somehow saved everyone's plates in a labeled cloth bag. Daniel noticed the effort — order, even now, mattered.
> "Eat fast," Wendy murmured, passing him a plate. "The Captain wants an early start."
Daniel gave a small nod and bit into the bread. It was dry, tasteless. But that wasn't the point.
It was routine.
And right now, routine was everything.
After a few minutes, Daniel stood and faced the group.
> "Use your bottled water to clean the plates. Avoid seawater — it'll ruin the steel."
Harry, the youngest among them, frowned.
> "Why can't we just rinse with the ocean?"
Daniel sighed.
> "Salt destroys metal. And fresh water… that's the one thing we can't afford to waste."
A few murmurs of agreement followed. No one objected.
Even the children were quiet that morning. Perhaps they had already learned the weight of silence.
---
Somewhere by the tents, John the doctor was taking inventory of his medical bag. He had created a simple chart — a list of injuries, infections, and who needed what.
> "Anyone with cuts or bruises, come to me before noon," he said, lifting his voice above the chatter. "We don't want minor wounds turning into something worse."
Nearby, science teacher Alice called a girl named Max to teach her. She used sticks to create makeshift learning tools. For an hour, laughter replaced anxiety. Max was learning how to count with seashells, and even old Sarah cracked a smile.
---
Daniel, meanwhile, walked around the camp, checking firewood, food supplies, and the condition of the tents. The air was warm, but a slight breeze carried with it a strange scent — like burnt leaves… or something older.
> "Something smells off," Arthur noted, joining Daniel.
> "You smell that too?"
> "Yeah… doesn't smell like smoke. Not like firewood."
They shared a glance but said nothing more. The last thing they needed was panic.
---
By noon, the group had settled into their routines. But it was clear to Daniel that their calm was only surface-deep.
They had survived the wreck. But they hadn't accepted the island yet.
Because something about the island didn't feel like Earth.
The trees were too still. The animals too silent.
And sometimes… at night, even the stars seemed wrong.
---
Glenferd the writer began sketching in a torn notebook.
> "What are you writing?" asked Juliet.
> "Trying to make sense of this mess. If we make it out, this might be a bestseller."
> "If," she echoed.
He didn't reply. He simply kept writing.
---
the island with it came a gentle hush — as though the island itself was winding down.
But for Daniel, the quiet only sharpened his instincts.
A small gust of wind brushed the camp.
And for a second, he felt something else in it.
Not the sea. Not the air.
But a presence.
> Or… a watcher.
Or… a warning.
That feeling.
Something was coming.
But none of them knew… yet.
To be continued...