The salty breeze of the Maldives swept across the cabin. That stood in the middle of the woods,creatures unusual sounds feeling the nights.
Peter and his younger sister, Mia, sprawled out in the ship's attic, surrounded by dusty crates and forgotten trinkets, their laughter bouncing off the wooden beams.
Below, their parents lounged at the bow, the late afternoon sun casting golden streaks across the polished deck.
Their dad, leaning back in a wicker chair, puffed on a rich, earthy cigar,
Their mom sat beside him, cradling a glass of alfredina (wine)She let out a soft laugh, her voice light but tinged with weariness.
"You know, this was actually a good idea," she said, swirling the wine gently,.
Her husband exhaled a plume of smoke, nodding. "Oh, it was. After the riots, the protests, those damn sirens wailing every night, and the gunshots…" He trailed off, his eyes fixed on the endless horizon. "We needed this."
She sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "I just wish we could stay here forever. No more sleeping with one eye open, jumping at every creak in the house like a couple of nocturnal animals."
"Darling, you kn—"
"I know, I know," she interrupted, her voice sharper now, though her eyes softened as she looked at him. "We can't just up and leave.
Our jobs, our home, everything we've built—it's all back there." She paused, staring into her drink as if it held answers.
He reached out, his hand warm and steady as it closed over hers. "I want this life for us too, for the kids. I really do. But I promise you, it'll get better."
She met his gaze, her lips curving into a smile—small, a little forced, but there. "You promised," she said softly, squeezing his hand, the moment lingering like the fading light on the water.
Up in the attic, Peter and Mia were oblivious to their parents' conversation, too busy rummaging through the ship's forgotten treasures.
Mia, her ponytail swinging, yanked a dusty trunk open, coughing as a cloud of dust puffed into her face.
"Gross," she muttered, waving it away. Her fingers brushed against something smooth and leathery tucked between a pile of faded maps and a rusty lantern. She pulled it out, squinting at the embossed cover. "Journal of Frederick Harper,."
she read aloud, her voice tinged with curiosity. "What the hell is this?"
Peter, sprawled on the floor messing with a broken compass, looked up. "Uh, what?"
"Check this out!" Mia waved the journal at him, its dark cover catching the dim light filtering through a porthole. "I think it's a journal."
Peter rolled his eyes, pushing himself up. "Really? What was your first guess, Einstein?"
"Just get over here," Mia shot back, flipping the cover open. The pages crinkled softly, the ink still sharp, not faded like you'd expect from something old. "Whoa, this doesn't look ancient. It's… kinda recent."
Peter leaned over her shoulder, brushing dust off his hands. "Yeah, it does. Weird." He pointed at the first entry, the handwriting bold but uneven, like it was written in a hurry.
Entry 1: When did it all go wrong?
Mia's eyes widened, her finger hovering over the words. "Okay, that's creepy. What do you think this guy was talking about?"
Peter shrugged, but his grin faded as he stared at the page. "Dunno. Let's find out."