Natalie spoke for the first time: "Whatever this is… it's part of the island's memory. But maybe we can fracture that memory."
"What do you mean?" Jude asked.
Natalie held his gaze. "The island made this place by forgetting something else. A dream of baskets and children, of laughter and ordinary roads. I think… we can remind it."
Soft murmurs circled. She continued: "If we bring parts of ourselves here, our memories, our rituals, our names, maybe we can weld ourselves into the island, not as victims, but as partners."
Grace nodded. "We remember. We speak. We won't disappear."
Then they all understood. And not one step faltered.
They went to strata: each wife returned to her shelter, gathered something meaningful, an old photo pressed into wood, a fragment of prayer inscribed on bone, a dried flower, even a child's toy hidden days ago. They returned to the fig tree, each presented a token, set it in the center of the circle under the arch, spoke it aloud:
