June pushed open the front door.
It opened with a long, aching creak—like the house itself was waking after a century-long sleep.
Dust floated in the air, catching the faint light of dusk. The furniture inside was ancient, heavy pieces carved from dark wood. Sofas with faded embroidery. A dining table scarred with deep scratches. A grandfather clock stood frozen at midnight, its hands unmoving.
June ran her fingers over the arm of a chair.
Cold.
"This place hasn't been touched in… years," she murmured.
No—longer than that.
Everything felt preserved, as if time had stopped the moment her great-grandfather left. Even the air felt different—thick, still, heavy with memories she didn't recognize.
For a moment, June closed her eyes.
She imagined laughter. Footsteps. A life that once filled these rooms.
Then she exhaled sharply and shook her head.
This is not the time to think.
Survival came first.
Carrying her suitcase, June climbed the narrow staircase.
Each step groaned under her weight, the wood complaining softly but holding firm. When she reached the first floor, the hallway opened before her.
Three doors lined the corridor.
All closed.
She hesitated, then pushed open the first door.
An empty bedroom. Bare walls. A cracked mirror.
The second room was no different—small, lifeless, forgotten.
June turned to the third door.
Beyond it stretched a large library.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves towered around the room, packed with old books whose spines were worn and unreadable. A long desk sat near the window, layered with dust. Faded maps hung crooked on the walls—places she had never heard of.
Her breath caught.
Attached to the library was a wide balcony.
June stepped closer and pushed open the glass doors.
Cool night air rushed in.
Below the cliff lay a vast black lake, its surface smooth and silent, reflecting the darkening sky like a mirror. No ripples. No sound. Just endless, still water stretching into the distance.
Beautiful.
And terrifying.
The wind brushed her hair as June stood frozen, staring at the lake, feeling an inexplicable pull in her chest—as if something beneath the water was watching her in return.
She went straight to the kitchen.
The moment she pushed the door open, her heart sank.
The space was a mess.
Cabinet doors hung open. Shelves were bare. Drawers lay overturned on the floor. It looked as if someone had searched the room in a hurry—or stripped it clean.
"A thief…" June muttered softly.
Whoever had been here before her had taken everything worth carrying.
She rolled up her sleeves.
If this place was going to be her home, even temporarily, then she would make it livable.
June started with the earthen stove built into the corner. Ash and soot coated its surface, hardened with age. She scrubbed patiently, coughing as dust filled the air.
Beside it stood an old Italian-style oven, its metal door rusted but intact. She wiped it down carefully, surprised to find it still solid beneath the grime.
When she opened the cupboards, thick spider webs clung to her fingers.
She shuddered but kept going.
Under one cabinet, hidden behind fallen wood panels, she found a small pile of cutlery—a few spoons, two knives, and a battered pan.
Not much.
But enough.
In the corner of the kitchen, she discovered a large iron pot, heavy and blackened from years of use. Perfect for boiling water.
Her stomach growled loudly.
June froze.
"I need food," she whispered.
She rushed to the pantry.
Empty.
Not a single grain. No flour. No rice. No dried food.
Her chest tightened for a second—but she forced herself to breathe.
Think. Don't panic.
June grabbed her shawl and stepped outside through the kitchen's backyard
Cool air greeted her, carrying the scent of damp earth.
Her eyes widened.
Behind the house, growing wild and untended, were vegetables.
Potatoes half-buried in the soil. Carrots twisted and small, but fresh. Tomato plants clinging stubbornly to life, their red fruit glowing faintly in the morning light.
She knelt down, fingers brushing the leaves.
Real food.
A quiet smile tugged at her lips for the first time since her mother's death.
Back inside, June placed the vegetables on the counter. From her suitcase, she took out a small pouch—
Salt.
She looked at it for a long moment.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough to survive today.
June returned to the garden with a small basket she had found near the back door.
She knelt in the soil and began pulling out carrots, brushing the dirt from their roots. Her movements were slow but steady, grounding her thoughts. The rhythm of work eased the tight knot in her chest.
As she reached toward the edge of the garden, her hand brushed against something hard.
Wood.
June frowned and looked closer.
A low wooden barricade stood beyond the vegetable patch, half-hidden by weeds and fallen leaves. It looked old—placed there long ago and forgotten.
Curious, she pushed it aside.
The wood collapsed easily with a dull thud.
Behind it—
June froze.
A duck nest.
Dry straw lined the ground, warm and carefully arranged. Nestled inside were eggs, pale and smooth, untouched.
Her breath caught.
"Oh…"
She carefully crouched down, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from disbelief.
Another nest lay nearby.
Then another.
June lifted her head slowly and scanned the area.
Hidden behind the wooden barricade were ten… maybe fifteen nests, scattered carefully under bushes and rocks, protected from view.
Her eyes stung.
She gently took a few eggs—only from one nest—making sure to leave the rest undisturbed.
"I won't take more than I need," she whispered.
Standing up, June hugged the basket to her chest. Warmth spread through her in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.
She looked up at the cloudy sky.
"Thank you," she said softly. "Thank you for not leaving me with nothing."
For the first time since being cast away, June smiled—not because her pain was gone, but because she finally had hope.
June returned to the kitchen, her arms full.
Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes—and the warm weight of duck eggs cradled carefully in the basket. She placed them on the old wooden counter, lining them neatly as if order itself could bring comfort.
"One thing at a time," she murmured.
Food meant nothing without fire.
She turned the tap.
Nothing.
Not even a drop.
June exhaled slowly.
"All right," she said quietly. "We adapt."
Her gaze landed on a wooden trolley tucked beside the back wall, its wheels stiff but intact. She dragged it out, testing its balance, then grabbed a coil of rope and headed back outside.
Beyond the broken barricade, the land grew wilder.
June searched the ground for dry branches, snapping smaller ones by hand. In the kitchen shed, she found an old kitchen knife—dull and nicked.
She knelt by a stone edge near the house and began sharpening it, metal scraping against rock in steady strokes.
Scrape. Scrape.
When the blade finally caught the light, she nodded in approval.
Using the knife, she cut fallen branches into manageable pieces, stacking them onto the trolley. Her arms burned, sweat dampened her back, but she didn't stop.
Soon, the trees thinned.
The air changed.
She had reached the lake.
The water lay before her—dark, silent, endless.
June paused.
The lake from the balcony looked beautiful. From here, standing at its edge, it felt… deep. Too deep.
She swallowed and forced herself to move carefully.
Near the shore stood several wooden barrels, half-buried in mud, likely once used by fishermen. She rolled them closer, rinsed them quickly, and knelt at the water's edge.
Slowly.
Carefully.
She filled them.
The water was cold, heavy, pulling at her arms as if reluctant to be taken. June kept her gaze steady, refusing to look at her reflection.
When the barrels were full, she tied them securely onto the trolley.
As she turned back toward the house, a sudden ripple disturbed the lake's surface.
June froze.
The water stilled again.
She told herself it was the wind.
Still, she didn't linger.
With the trolley creaking behind her, June made her way home—firewood, water, food.
She was exhausted.
But for the first time, she felt capable.
June sat cross-legged in front of the earthen stove, her hands trembling slightly as she held the small, worn lighter—her father's, a keepsake her mother had always kept tucked safely in her coat pocket. The flame flickered uncertainly, dancing in the cold air.
She piled small branches, dry grass, and twigs into the stove, forming a careful nest.
A cough of smoke filled her nose. She waved it away, then tried again.
Click. Click.
Finally—a spark. Tiny at first, then a warm, steady flame began to crackle and grow.
June's lips curved in a small smile.
It's alive.
She grabbed a small pot, rinsed it quickly with cold water from the lake, and filled it halfway. The water hissed as it met the heat, rising in slow, curling steam.
While waiting for it to boil, June turned her attention to the vegetables she had harvested earlier. Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, even some wild herbs—she washed them carefully, then chopped them finely on the old kitchen counter, her knife scraping rhythmically against the worn wood.
Finally, the water began to bubble. She set aside a small portion for drinking—careful, methodical. Then she tossed the chopped vegetables into the boiling water and covered the pot with a heavy iron lid.
But the eggs—she had no oil for frying.
June hesitated for a second. Then, an idea sparked. She cracked the eggs directly on top of the iron lid, using it as a pan. Slowly, carefully, she let the heat cook them.
It worked.
The eggs sizzled slightly, a soft golden aroma filling the kitchen. The boiling soup beneath the lid bubbled gently, steam curling around her hands.
June knelt there, taking it all in: the fire, the steam, the smell of cooked vegetables and eggs, the warmth seeping into her fingers.
She tasted a small spoonful of the soup. Warm, earthy, nourishing. Not much, but enough.
She closed her eyes for a moment, whispering a quiet, grateful thanks:
"Thank you, Mother… thank you, Heaven…"
Outside, the wind swept across the desolated island, rustling through the black lake and broken trees. But inside, in the old kitchen, June's fire burned