The raft drifted away, almost silently, while behind it the Oceanus continued to tilt slowly as if hesitating between sinking or holding on. The air was heavy. Something in the atmosphere was beginning to change. Samuel felt it before he saw it: that salty, thick smell that announces storms.
At first, it was a stronger breeze. Then the sky began to rumble—not with thunder yet, but with that low murmur that seeps in from the horizon. The waves grew—not violently, but persistently—lifting the raft like a loose leaf.
Samuel sat inside, covered up to his neck with the waterproof tarp, his briefcase hugged against his chest. He was cold, though not shaking. Not his body. What trembled inside him was something else: the knowledge that there was no one left to talk to, no one to follow. Only darkness and the sound of the sea swelling in the night.
The first lightning cut across the sky like a crack of light and showed him something: other rafts, not far, floating alive inside. He saw moving silhouettes, some shouting. The wind swallowed their voices. He raised his hand, tried to signal. But then the rain fell, suddenly, like a sheet thrown down from the sky.
There was no warning. No pause.
The waves began pushing hard, and the raft spun. At first slowly. Then faster. Samuel clung to the edge, trying to keep balance, but everything was slippery. Water hit his face in bursts, like icy slaps.
The flashlight fell and disappeared beneath the tarp. The knife was still in the briefcase, but he could barely think. The wind howled above his head, making the raft's frame creak as if it were paper.
A thunderclap exploded so close he thought the sea had split in two.
That's when he knew: he had separated from the others.
He saw no more lights. No more rafts. No more voices. Only the roar of the ocean and the drumming of rain falling relentlessly.
He felt fear. Not the paralyzing kind, but the one that stays silent in the chest like a stone. The fear of knowing that, even if he survived the storm, he didn't know where he was going. Or if there was anything or anyone else floating out there.
He screamed once. Not to call for help. Just to not keep the fear inside. The wind carried his voice away as if it had never existed.
The storm lasted for hours. Or so it seemed. Time lost all shape. At some point, Samuel vomited from the pressure of the waves. His mouth was salty, his stomach empty, and his head dull from the constant rocking. He curled up, his body soaked, muscles tense, and his soul held up only by the idea that dawn existed somewhere.
At some point — he doesn't know when — he fell asleep.
His body didn't ask permission. It simply shut down.
He woke with a start.
Not because of a noise, but because of silence. Absolute silence, almost unreal.
He opened his eyes with difficulty. The inside of the raft was warm from the sun. The tarp still hung over his head, wet and sticky. He slowly sat up, every muscle protesting. He slid back the side hatch a little.
The sea was still.
An endless plain of shiny, deep blue water. Clear sky. No clouds. No rafts. No ships. No sound, except the soft creak of the tarp drying in the sun.
Only him.
The sea.
And the memory of the Oceanus disappearing into the night.
He swallowed hard. The empty stomach gave him a pang.
He checked his briefcase. Everything was still there: the wet notebook, the wrapped knife, a small bottle of water—barely half a liter. No food.
He took a deep breath. Looked at the horizon. No sign of land.
He was alive.
He was alone.
And for the first time in his life, the sea didn't seem infinite. It seemed hollow.