They didn't vanish, they observed. As living memory gestures, they respected the bond formed. At dawn, they'd be gone, or quietly folded back into the forest.
Jude drifted into sleep, hearing voices: "We remember." And the island breathing, solid, endless, welcoming.
They had stepped into the heart. The heart had welcomed. Stone, wood, blood, memory: a seed and a shell become linked. As long as they named themselves, as long as they loved, the island would dream of them, and they would dream the island.
Mist hung over the camp when Jude woke, dawning pale and distant like old ghosts drifting between the trees. He opened his eyes to wet wood, the low hum of rain on broad leaves, and the soft stir of eleven women around him, Grace and Lucy curled against each other, Emma draping across Jude's hip, Sophie kneeling to fetch water, and the rest preparing roots or kindling. They moved with gentle purpose, as though each morning was a gift reclaimed.
