The sun was at its zenith when I woke up.The fire had long since gone out; around me lay the traces of my clumsy attempts to survive one more day.I felt weak, but inside there was a strange calm.
I understood that if I wanted to live, I had to act.
The palm trees seemed distant, but I knew there was water there.I found a smooth stone, tied it to a stick, and fashioned a crude hook.After several failed throws, I managed to knock down the first coconut.Then a second. A third.My hands were trembling, but I could feel it—this was the beginning.
I cracked the shell and drank the juice.Cold, sharp—it brought clarity back to me.
I gathered more branches than before and began to build a shelter.At first it was just a lean-to, then something like a tent.Clumsy, but mine.A place to hide from the sun and from the sky, which had become чужим to me—alien.
When the sun begins to sink toward the horizon, the air changes.Everything around seems to freeze, as if time itself pauses.And then it returns—the flute.
The same sound, but now closer.As if it's moving just beyond the edge of hearing—between the wind and the breath of the sea.I sit by the fire and listen.I don't fear it. I don't tremble. I simply wait.
Sometimes it feels as though someone is hiding words inside the melody.Not mine. Not human.And yet I listen anyway, as if it's calling me.
When morning comes, the flute falls silent, and I'm left with a single thought:I have to find out who is playing.
Tomorrow I will go into the jungle.If someone is on this island—I will find them.