The old fishermen used to say the sea had moods.
Not storms.
Not tides.
Moods.
Some days, it fed you.
Other days, it watched you.
And on rare nights—nights the elders refused to name—the sea chose.
The engine of the Mercy Dawn coughed once, twice, then died.
Silence followed.
Not the normal kind.
This silence pressed in—thick, heavy—like the world was holding its breath.
Jonah Adewale stood at the edge of the boat, eyes scanning the fog that had rolled in without warning. The compass on the dashboard spun wildly, needle twitching like a trapped insect.
"This isn't funny," one of the men muttered. "We were close to shore an hour ago."
Jonah didn't answer.
He could smell it now.
Not salt.
Not fish.
Something old.
Something… wrong.
The fog thinned.
And that was when they saw it.
The island did not rise from the sea.
The sea withdrew from it, as though afraid to touch what had been sleeping there.
Jagged rocks ringed the shoreline like broken teeth. Dark trees crowded together inland, their branches twisted, leaning inward—as if guarding a secret. No birds flew above it. No waves touched it.
Just stillness.
Pure, deliberate stillness.
"That's not on any map," Jonah whispered.
No one replied.
Because every man on the boat already knew.
This was the place the elders warned about in low voices.
The island sailors pretended not to believe in.
The island that punished curiosity.
A sudden force pulled the boat forward.
Not a wave.
Not wind.
A pull.
The Mercy Dawn lurched, wood groaning as it was dragged toward the shore. One man screamed. Another fell to his knees, praying aloud.
Jonah felt it then.
The unmistakable sensation of being seen.
Not watched.
Judged.
The boat slammed onto black sand.
The moment Jonah's foot touched the ground, the fog behind them closed—thick and impenetrable—swallowing the sea whole.
The engine roared back to life on its own.
Then died.
Again.
They were no longer stranded.
They were invited.
From deep within the island, something shifted.
Not an animal.
Not the wind.
A presence.
And in Jonah's chest, a thought formed—clear, чуж cold, and not his own:
You have arrived.