The next morning, we awoke to a stillness that felt unnatural. The air was heavy, and the usual morning chorus of birds was absent. Laura suggested we try to signal for help, using the boat’s emergency flare.
‘It’s worth a shot,’ she said, though her voice carried doubt.
We made our way back to the shore, hoping to spot a passing ship or plane. As I loaded the flare, Laura scanned the horizon, her face a mask of concentration.
‘There’s nothing,’ she whispered, her breath fogging in the cool morning air.
The flare arced into the sky, a bright beacon against the grey clouds. We watched it burn out, leaving nothing but a thin trail of smoke that quickly dissipated.
‘What now?’ I asked, feeling the weight of isolation settle in.
‘We keep looking,’ Laura said, determination in her voice. ‘There has to be a way off this island.’
We spent the day exploring deeper into the forest, marking our path to avoid getting lost. It was slow going, the terrain rough and uneven. Every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig set my nerves on edge.
‘Look,’ Laura said, pointing to a peculiar formation of rocks.
It was a circle, clearly arranged by human hands. In its center lay a pile of stones, each engraved with symbols that were unfamiliar to us.
‘Do you think it’s some kind of marker?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Maybe,’ Laura said, tracing a finger over the carvings. ‘But what for?’
We took photos with our phones, hoping they might shed light on the island’s secrets when we returned home—if we returned home.
The discovery left us both uneasy, as if we’d stumbled upon something that wasn’t meant to be found. As we made our way back to camp, the island seemed to close in around us, its mysteries deepening.
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