The market was alive.
Not just busy alive. Like the whole place breathed in rhythm with some ancient drumbeat echoing under the earth. Scents of roasted cassava, sea salt, and something floral I couldn't name curled through the air. Laughter spilled from open doorways. Colors clashed in the most beautiful ways scarves, spices, woven mats, painted masks.
I walked a little behind Milo and Lena, letting the sound wrap around me. The red string the little boy had given me still hung loose around my wrist.
And then I saw them.
Other writers.
I swear I could tell from a mile off. The way they moved half distracted, half enchanted. As if every detail might become a sentence.
There was a girl with white braids in a spiral notebook frenzy, sketching symbols into the margins. A guy with a feather quill tucked behind his ear, deep in conversation with an elder in long indigo robes. A tall, pierced woman in a velvet cloak stood in the shadow of a palm tree, watching me. Just watching.
"What… is this place?" I whispered.
Milo stepped beside me, his voice low. "Some kind of creative retreat, I think. I heard one of them say the island calls people when they're ready."
"Ready for what?"
He didn't answer.
We passed a central fountain, where children danced in circles and an old woman stirred a pot of something that glowed blue. A younger woman with a baby strapped to her back handed us warm coconut bread, smiling without saying a word.
Then I heard someone yell my name.
"Celine?! No freakin' way!"
I turned Aaliyah, a wild, poetic soul I'd once shared a writers' forum with. She wore gold hoops the size of her fists and a sunflower scarf.
"I KNEW I saw your name on the list, girl. What the hell are you writing magic too?"
I blinked. "Wait what do you mean, too?"
She lowered her voice, eyes gleaming. "Don't pretend. You've seen it, haven't you? You write it… it happens."
I didn't answer, but something in my silence made her grin wider.
"Be careful," she whispered. "This place doesn't do edits."
Meanwhile, Lena was busy flirting.
With a blond Adonis of a poet. His name was Lucien, apparently. He spoke in a deep French accent and gave her an origami rose.
I watched them from across the crowd. The way she leaned into him. The way Milo looked away.
And then our eyes met.
Milo's and mine.
It lasted two seconds. Maybe three.
But it said everything.
Later, as the sun began to set in molten orange, a voice rang out near the temple steps. A local elder stood there, arms raised.
"The island welcomes the storytellers," he declared. "But remember… you are not the only ones writing the future."
Every head turned toward the mountains beyond.
And my skin went cold.