The air shifted that evening. Heavier. Thicker. Like something had noticed us.
After a lazy afternoon exploring tidepools and sketching story ideas on the veranda, I'd convinced myself the "dream" meant nothing. That I was just spiraling from too much sun, too much Milo, too much everything.
But then the old man appeared.
No footsteps. No warning. Just there, at the edge of the trees as the sky turned bruised with twilight.
"Don't scream," he said before I could.
I didn't. I just stared.
His skin was like carved bark, weathered and cracked, his eyes the pale gray of a storm before it breaks. He wore a robe of faded red, cinched with a fraying rope, and around his neck hung a pendant the same symbol that glowed on my notebook.
I stepped back. Milo heard the rustle and came running from behind the cottage.
"Hey! Who are you?" he barked, half protective, half startled.
The man didn't answer him.
His eyes they were locked on me.
"You opened it," he said softly, voice like seaweed dragging across stone. "Didn't you?"
"What are you talking about?" I asked, playing dumb but already shaking.
"The book," he whispered. "The Island's Heart. You wrote something."
I clutched my bag instinctively. "How do you know about that?"
He chuckled. "Because the island told me. It always tells."
Milo stepped between us. "Okay, enough. You need to leave."
The man looked at Milo, pity in his gaze. "You don't see it yet. But she does. She's already begun weaving threads."
I felt cold all over.
"Who are you?" I asked again, voice smaller than I meant.
He finally looked directly into my eyes.
"The last one who opened it before you. But I stopped writing. You must, too."
He stepped closer. "The Island is alive, child. It gives freely… until you take too much. Then it asks for something back."
I swallowed. "What does it want?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he held out a small pouch and dropped it in my hand. It smelled of herbs and salt and something old, almost ancient.
"For protection. While you still have a choice."
Before I could ask anything else, he turned and walked back into the trees, disappearing as suddenly as he had come.
"Okay, what the hell was that?" Milo asked, his voice shaking slightly.
I looked down at the pouch, then up at the empty woods.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
But part of me the part that loved stories, that couldn't look away from the edge was already itching to write again.
That night, I lay in bed, the pouch under my pillow, the notebook still hidden.
And I whispered to the dark:
"What happens if I write a lie... and it still comes true?"