"On this island, keeping a journal is the only thing that makes me feel remotely human."
—Mike, Island Journal, Page 255
———
Under the pale glow of moonlight, Mike walked back to the wooden cabin and into his room.
He sat at the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a weathered journal. Flipping to the final page, he realized—it was the third one he had filled cover to cover.
He had never been one for writing. Or remembering.
Six Christmases ago, Noah, the owner of the small local shop, had handed him a notebook, a pen, and a slab of his wife's homemade butter cake. Mike had smiled, muttered "Merry Christmas," and turned to leave.
Since Mike had moved to the island, Noah was probably the only person he spoke to regularly. He came by every week to buy food, beer—and a hint of human connection.
Noah and his wife Halola, both in their fifties, were born and raised on Chuuk Island. Mike had watched them go from being the center of a boisterous household to empty nesters, steady fixtures behind a dusty counter. One by one, their children left the island. But the shop remained the same—faded, patched, slightly bent by time, like a story no one wanted to stop telling.
They never asked about Mike's past. But they cared.
Halola would leave meals by his door. Noah would knock a few dollars off his bill. In the early years, they invited him to Christmas dinners. Eventually, the invitations became wordless offerings: a cake, a notebook, a pen.
That year, Mike nodded and took the journal.
"If you don't feel like talking," Noah had said, his tone calm but sincere, "write it down. My father used to say that journaling cures everything the body can't."
Then he chuckled. "Don't be fooled by me. I didn't finish school. But my dad was the most respected teacher in our village."
That night, Mike drank half a case of beer. At two in the morning, he opened to the first page and wrote:
"I stopped fearing death a long time ago. What scares me is waking up."
He hadn't stopped writing since.
Last night, he dreamed again. It wasn't until near dawn that he finally slept.
He saw an old courtyard bathed in dead-white moonlight. The air was thick with jasmine—and something coppery, like blood.
A girl collapsed on the floor beside a shattered porcelain bowl. Bitter herbal liquid seeped into the cracks, carrying a late, bitter kind of despair.
She looked up at him. Her eyes brimmed with sorrow, fear—and something deeper, a grief from across lifetimes.
"Why didn't you come for me?"
Her lips didn't move. But he heard her.
He tried to reach her, but couldn't move. His throat was sealed shut, breathless.
He could only watch as she slowly sank beneath the waters of his dream. Her face paled, drained of color, like a photograph left too long in the tide.
By the time he stepped out into the light, the sun was already high. Jane was seated inside, halfway through the second page of the letter.
Sunlight filtered through the coconut leaves, laying soft, golden streaks across her face. Her brow was furrowed in quiet concentration.
George sat across from her, sipping coffee. When he saw Mike, he slid his chair aside to make space.
Jane looked up for just a moment, then resumed reading aloud:
"He came to the house for the first time that summer, delivering something for Uncle He. It was a scorching day, and I was hiding behind the rock garden to cool off. He saw me right away.
I remember he looked down, a little shy. I thought it was funny, so I asked on purpose, 'What's your name?'
He stammered, 'Ah... Ashun.'
Looking at his handsome face, I blushed. My heart raced. I panicked and ran off.
I was born of a concubine, but my father adored me. No one dared discipline me in that big family. He even refused to bind my feet—he said it would hurt me.
My siblings resented me, partly because of Mother's status, partly because of Father's favor.
So I was always alone. The rock garden in the back was my haven after home school—watching birds, feeding fish, catching crickets...
But after I met Ashun, I stopped looking for birds or crickets. I only hoped to see him."
She paused. Her gaze softened.
"He was Uncle He's nephew, a groundskeeper in our estate. I saw him every day after school. Eventually, he started telling me stories about his village—about the fields and the changing seasons I'd never known.
One summer night, we snuck out to watch the stars behind the garden. He said the moon would be its fullest that night.
I waited until all the lamps were out. He must've been waiting a long time. He gently guided me to the far side of the garden.
I liked hearing his stories. I'd never stepped beyond the walls of our estate. His stories made me feel like a caged bird seeing the sky for the first time."
Jane's voice grew lighter, almost like a whisper.
"That night, he looked at me, and I looked at him… He leaned closer. I didn't back away. Maybe we both knew it was wrong. But as you used to say, Mother—it's like opium. You know it's bad for you, but you can't stop."
"We kept meeting in secret. Until one day… I realized my body had changed."
She folded the letter and slid her fingers toward the next page—then froze.
"Coward," she muttered. "What a gutless man. Men are all the same."
George, mid-bite, nearly choked. "Hey now—bit harsh, don't you think? Mike and I aren't like that."
Jane looked up at him, eyes red. Her voice trembled.
"Do you even know what it meant to be an unwed girl pregnant in that era?"
She raised her voice suddenly:
"They forced her to take abortive medicine, locked her in the ancestral hall, and in the end, married her off to a man old enough to be her grandfather—as a concubine! And him? He vanished without a word! If that's not a coward, what is?"
George opened his mouth, but said nothing.
Then Mike spoke, quiet and measured:
"Maybe… he didn't want to run. Maybe he was too scared to stay."
Jane froze. The fire in her eyes faltered, flickered.
"You're defending him?"
"I just think… maybe he was just a servant boy. Maybe he was around Mei's age. And sometimes, when you're trapped, your body runs before your mind can catch up."
Sunlight streamed into the cabin. The air grew still, heavy with something unspoken.
Jane looked down at the letter, her knuckles white.
She exhaled slowly, folded the paper, and said, more gently:
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just… as a woman... never mind. You wouldn't understand."
She sank into her chair, placed the beer bottle softly on the table, and stared at the shadows dancing on the wall—like waking from a long, heavy dream.
"My grandmother used to tell me stories about my great-grandmother," she said quietly. "She had her feet bound at five, was sent off to marry at seven. She didn't even have a name. They just called her 'that girl.'"
Jane's lips quivered. She wiped away a tear.
"When she was ten, she got sick. They thought she brought bad luck and almost threw her out. My mom said she used to cry alone in the kitchen corner every night. She never learned to read. Never left the village."
She paused, eyes distant.
"When I was little, those stories gave me nightmares. I dreamed my own feet were bound—I couldn't walk. I still remember that suffocating feeling."
George whispered, "No wonder the letter hit you so hard."
Jane nodded but said nothing. The wind outside lifted the old curtain, like mourning for stories left untold.
After a long silence, Mike asked:
"So Jane… after you finish reading the letter—what do you want to do?"
She looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Do you still want to go to China?" he asked. "I want to deliver this letter to her family myself. Or at least to the place she once called home."
George twirled his bottle. "Well, I'm coming either way. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
Jane chuckled. "You don't have to worry. I'm going too. Besides, without me, you two wouldn't last a day in China."
She looked toward the sea. Light shimmered on the waves.
"Honestly… I think this is something I'm meant to do. China is where I was born. Where my great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mom grew up. Maybe… I'm searching for a part of myself too."
She turned to Mike. Her voice was calm, but sure:
"We'll find Mei's family. We'll get this letter to them."
Just then, a coconut fell with a thud, scattering sand in the courtyard—like a drumbeat before a journey.
The sea breeze picked up, warm and salty, tugging gently at the threads of their once-still fates.
None of them spoke.
But they all knew—
This journey wouldn't just be about delivering a letter written a century ago.
It would be about reaching the people they had once abandoned within themselves:
For Mike—the man who finally dared face his nightmares. For Jane—the woman still searching for the meaning of her life. And for George—the one learning to laugh again, even in the shadow of loss.