Chapter 1: The Pain of the Living
"I stopped fearing death long ago. What scares me… is waking up."— Mike, Island Journal, Page 247
The sea stretched out like a timeworn letter—damp, faded, and silent.In front of a crumbling wooden shack, Mike leaned against a palm tree half-submerged in the ocean, his spine stiffened by the salty breeze. His gaze was vacant, fixed somewhere between the horizon and the memory of a sunset long gone.
In his hand was an opened bottle of rum, nearly empty. He didn't drink it. He simply let it spin between his fingers, as if waiting for something—or perhaps for nothing at all.
He had been on this island for nine years.
No electricity. No internet. No visitors.Just one shack, one bed, one semi-feral cat, and a soul curled up in the closet, refusing to open its eyes.
He couldn't recall the last time he had a proper night's sleep.The dreams always came at 3 a.m., tearing through his subconscious.By 3:30, he was wide awake again.
The dreams never changed:A blood-red battlefield.Trent pushing him away from an explosion in the final second.Trent falling before him—eyes wide open, filled with unspoken courage and quiet sorrow.
The blast echoed through Mike's skull.Shattered bones. Scorched skin. Fire licking the desert ground.
He was the squad leader.He was supposed to bring them home.
But now, Trent—the kid who once laughed about opening a baseball school after discharge—only existed in his nightmares.
What was even worse was what happened when Mike returned to the States.The airport lights were blinding. He waited by the arrivals gate, scanning for Maria and Mia.
They never showed up.
Instead, two police officers approached him.
"Car accident… We're sorry, sir… They didn't make it."
Their mouths moved like silent TV anchors on mute. He heard nothing.
He remembered stumbling into the morgue.The moment the drawer opened, he saw Maria's face frozen in fear, and little Mia's hand still clutching her favorite teddy bear.
He wanted to scream.He wanted to destroy the world.But he could do nothing.
All he could do was run—to somewhere the world could no longer find him.
And so he came here.
Days on the island were like soaked newspaper—blurry, bloated, undefined.He stopped keeping time. Stopped speaking.He drank until he vomited, collapsed, woke up, and drank again.
Every night, he thought about ending it all.But every time he approached the edge—knife in hand, rope prepared, feet on the cliff—Trent's eyes would appear again in his mind.
Those eyes seemed to say:"You're alive because I gave you my death."
So, he didn't die.
Instead, he buried himself in a tomb made for the living.
That evening, the sun bled across the sea's surface. As it dipped low, his fingers brushed against something hard in the water.
He picked it up absentmindedly. A glass bottle. Something was inside.
He shook it, shrugged, and staggered back toward the shack.
That night, he fell asleep without dreaming of Trent—for the first time in nine years.
The next morning, a hard lump in his jacket pocket woke him.
The bottle.
He pulled it out and examined it closely. An old-style cork sealed it. Inside, a yellowed sheet of paper curled tightly.
The paper was brittle. He carefully unrolled it.
Though he couldn't read Chinese, the numbers in the corner caught his eye:1918.
He furrowed his brows, trying to decipher something from the faded ink and strokes.Then, on the back of the letter, he spotted it—an illustration.A single plum blossom. Hand-drawn. Simple yet elegant, steeped in quiet grace.
His breath caught.
That flower stirred something in him—something eerily familiar.
A memory surged from deep within:
Seven years ago.He and Maria were honeymooning in Hawaii.One evening, they strolled down a quiet street, searching for a place to eat.
They wandered into a small Chinese restaurant.
As they exited, Mike held the door open for an elderly woman entering. She wore a dark blue qipao, her silver hair pinned meticulously. Her face was stern, yet carried a sadness… and a strange nobility.
They locked eyes for a moment.A slight nod.And then it passed.
For some reason, he felt he had seen her before.
Maria's voice broke the spell:"Babe, you coming?"
He turned away, but glanced back once more.There, carved into the restaurant's wooden door, was a single—
plum blossom.
Clutching the letter now, a chill ran down his spine.
For the first time in nine years, something stirred inside him.
A question.A curiosity.
He hadn't felt anything in years—except numbness.But now, for reasons he couldn't explain, he wanted to know.Who wrote this letter?What story did it carry?Why did the blossom feel like a scar on his soul?
He stood up.
For the first time in a long while, he did something other than drink or sleep.
He pulled on his faded army jacket, walked across the beach, through the palms, and arrived at the island's only convenience store.
Borrowing a dusty old cell phone from the shopkeeper, he dialed a number buried deep in memory.
It rang.
The voice that answered was warm, casual, unmistakably familiar.
"George speaking."
George. An old friend from the army.A translator back then. One of the few who could find meaning in lost languages—and sometimes, in broken people.
Mike never used to believe in fate.
But now… he wasn't so sure.
Maybe some things weren't meant to be remembered while alive.
Maybe some things were carried by the sea, waiting for the right soul to find them.
(To be continued)