Epilogue —
It was the morning after the storm.
Waves still whispered secrets to the sand as the wind curled low and slow across the shoreline. The sea had emptied itself overnight—scattering driftwood, broken shells, and remnants of places that didn't exist on any map.
A girl—barefoot, no more than eleven—wandered the beach with a stick in one hand and curiosity in the other.
Her village, not far behind her, was still asleep.
But something called her.
She didn't know why she turned toward the largest dune or why her feet took her there without hesitation. And she certainly didn't know why her heart skipped as she spotted the object sticking halfway out of the wet sand, wrapped in strands of seaweed like the ocean itself had tried to keep it.
She dropped to her knees and pulled it free.
A journal—leather-bound, worn, and soaked in memory.
The girl traced the initials burned faintly into the front cover:
K.D.
Kairo Donari.
But of course, she didn't know that name yet.
She flipped through its warped pages. Most were unreadable, smudged and torn. Some had cryptic sketches—maps of impossible islands, spiraling compasses, and temples that didn't match anything in her world.
But near the center, one page was dry.
Pristine.
Waiting.
In careful handwriting, it read:
> "If you've found this, then the island has already found you."
Her breath caught. A breeze lifted her hair. The stick in her hand slipped from her fingers. From somewhere far off, but somehow also inside her, a whisper rose.
Soft.
Ancient.
Familiar.
The sea shimmered.
And for a moment—just a moment—there it was on the horizon:
A shape, flickering like memory.
An island.
Waiting.
She closed the book and stood.
No fear. Only wonder.
And when she took her first step toward the tide, the wind carried a voice not heard in years:
> "Welcome back."
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THE END