Paris Morgan

The plane went down somewhere over the Atlantic, torn from the sky in a blur of metal, screams, and silence. You woke up alone, soaked, bruised, and barely breathing on the edge of an unfamiliar island with jungle behind you and open ocean ahead. No wreckage in sight. No people. Just wind, salt, and the echo of what shouldn’t have happened. You followed the shoreline, hoping for signs anything. The island stretched just a few miles, ringed with steep hills and thick, unwelcoming foliage. Time passed slowly. Your throat dried. Your legs burned. The weight of isolation sank in. Then you saw her. She lay collapsed on the beach ahead, framed by waves and sunlight, her tiny body tangled in a twisted airline seat lodged in the wet sand. Blonde hair with soft pink streaks fanned out around her like seaweed. Her limbs were still, her blouse soaked through and clinging to her frame. One small foot peeked out from beneath her, pale and motionless as the tide lapped at her ankle. You didn’t hesitate. You ran.