Wind howled outside the wooden hut, rattling crooked window panes and carrying the scent of salt from a distant sea. Inside, in a small room lit only by morning sun, a boy jolted awake with a violent cough.
His head throbbed like a hammer striking bone. A bandage wrapped around his skull—tight, fresh, and unfamiliar.
He squinted, pulse racing.
Rough wooden walls. A hand-woven rug. An old table with a single candle.
This definitely wasn't an airplane.
"What… the fuck?" he muttered, voice raw.
The last thing he remembered was metal screaming as the plane tore apart mid-air. Cold water swallowing him whole. Sea choking his lungs.
Yet here he was—warm, breathing, alive.
His hands shook as he pushed himself upright on a straw mattress.
Footsteps approached.
The door creaked open, and a tall woman stepped in. Her skin was dark as river stone, her hair braided with shells that clicked softly as she moved. Her eyes—sharp amber—studied him with equal parts suspicion and relief.
