After finishing her simple but satisfying meal, June turned her attention to another necessity: bath and cleaning.
She dragged two wooden barrels closer to the old iron pot on the stove, filling it with water from the lake. The pot was enormous, meant for boiling water for the whole house, but today it was just for her. With patient care, she built the fire beneath it again, stacking dry branches and twigs carefully, coaxing the flames to grow.
While waiting for the water to boil, she turned to the kitchen mess. Dust, dirt, and leftover vegetable peels were scattered across counters and floor. June grabbed a rag, a bucket of water, and scrubbed slowly. Every surface she cleaned reminded her she was making this place her own, her tiny domain in the vast, desolate island.
At last, the water in the iron pot began to bubble steadily. June grabbed a smaller bucket and carefully carried the hot water to the bathroom. The bathtub was grimy and coated with dust, but she filled it with the last bucket, rubbing the surfaces until it was clean enough to use.
Evening light filtered through the small bathroom window, casting golden streaks across the tiles. June dipped her hands into the hot water and began to clean herself thoroughly. Cold shivers ran down her spine, but the warmth of the water and the quiet solitude gave her a sense of peace she hadn't felt in months.
After bathing, she changed into fresh clothes she had brought in her luggage. Simple, practical garments, but clean—and for the first time in weeks, she felt refreshed.
The next step was her room. June carried the last of the collected firewood into the fireplace, arranging it carefully despite aching arms. With effort and patience, she coaxed the flame to life. Sparks danced against the stone walls. The warm glow spread slowly, chasing away the chill that had settled into the house during the long day.
No electricity, no modern conveniences—but fire, water, and shelter were enough. For the first day, she survived.
June didn't dwell further on her troubles. Exhaustion tugged at her limbs. She climbed into the creaky old bed, pulling the thin blanket around her.
Outside, the wind moaned across the island. Inside, the fire crackled softly, and June finally let herself close her eyes.
The first light of morning seeped through the cracked window, spilling in golden streaks across the old wooden floor.
June stirred, blinking at the weak sun that painted the room with warmth. For a brief second, she felt alone—the house silent, the island still, the black lake outside untouched by life.
She swung her legs over the bed and sat for a moment, listening. The wind whispered through the broken walls, the floorboards creaked under their own weight, and somewhere outside, a bird's faint cry broke the silence.
She stood. The day demanded her attention.
June walked to the small basin in the corner of her room. She dipped water from the container she had set aside last night and washed her face, the cold water shocking her awake.
She brushed her teeth slowly, her fingers trembling as the minty paste mingled with the scent of fire from last night's hearth. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror—a pale, tired girl staring back, with dark circles under her eyes—but there was determination there now too.
No one was coming for her. No one would save her.
She straightened her back.
I have to do it myself.
June grabbed her wooden bucket and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
The island smelled of salt and wet earth. Mist curled off the black lake, hugging the shoreline like a living thing. She pulled her shawl tighter and set off toward the water.
The firewood from yesterday had been nearly depleted, so she needed more. Branches lay scattered along the lake's edge, washed ashore from storms long past. Carefully, she selected dry pieces, testing each with a knock of her knife against stone to make sure it would burn well.
Once her bucket was full of water from the lake, June loaded it alongside the firewood onto the wooden trolley. The weight was heavy, but she walked steadily, careful not to spill a single drop.
Back at the house, she would build the fire again, boil water, prepare for the day. The rhythm of survival had begun.
June placed the eggs and stir-fried vegetables carefully on the wooden table, sprinkling salt from her pouch. The aroma filled the kitchen, comforting in the early morning light. She ate slowly, savoring each bite. For the first time in days, she felt full—not just physically, but in spirit.
Her mind wandered. She needed supplies if she was going to survive here. Food alone wouldn't be enough. Cooking, storage, light, and tools—she would need everything.
She remembered seeing something outside the house the day before—a rusted old bicycle, half-buried under weeds near the garage.
June wiped the dust off the frame, checked the tires, and pumped them as best she could. Then she attached her small trolley to the back. Her heart raced with nervous excitement.
The road ahead was long and desolate. Two kilometers separated her from the small town, the only settlement on the island. Patches of grass and wildflowers grew through cracks in the concrete road. Trees lined the edges, casting shadows that danced in the early sunlight.
June pushed forward, pedaling steadily, determined. The trolley rattled behind her, each bump in the road.
After some time, the town appeared. Small, rustic houses with wooden planks, a few fishermen pulling in nets, and a handful of shops with faded signs. The market was quiet, mostly locals tending to their daily routines.
June entered a small store and began buying essentials.
Flour, rice, and pulses for long-term cooking.
Herbs to season meals and maintain health.
Kitchenware—a small pot, wooden spoons, and a pan.
Candles and emergency lights—electricity was unreliable.
A knife for cutting and survival.
She counted the coins in her pocket carefully. Soon, every last penny was gone.
But for the first time, June felt prepared.
She piled the purchases into her trolley, balancing the weight as best she could. Her muscles ached, but the trolley held firm.
Before leaving the market, June spoke with a native fisherman.
"Excuse me," she asked carefully. "Can you tell me more about this island?"
The man squinted, studying her for a long moment. "It's a volcanic island," he said finally. "But don't worry—no eruption for decades. The volcano is dead… mostly. Only about a hundred families live here, mostly fishing. Some areas are dangerous—military training grounds, cliffs, and forests. Best stay close to the village until you know the land."
June nodded silently, filing the information in her mind. A volcanic island. Desolate. Dangerous. Yet alive.
She mounted the bicycle again, trolley loaded. The road back to her great-grandfather's house stretched before her, winding through the quiet island.
The black lake glimmered faintly in the distance, silent and waiting.
June tightened her grip on the handlebars.
Tomorrow, I will explore more.
June wheeled the loaded trolley into the house, her muscles burning from the long journey. One by one, she unloaded the items, placing candles and emergency lights carefully in corners and near windows.
She went to her room and began preparing it for comfort. The bedsheets and pillow covers were taken out of the cupboard, shaken and inspected, ready for washing. Every fold reminded her: she would make this house livable.
Next, she went to the drawing room. Dust-covered sofas lay under tattered sheets. June stripped them, folding the sheets neatly before setting them aside to wash later.
The ringing of the doorbell startled her.
She opened the front door to see a plumber, sent ahead as she requested. A small smile crossed her face. "Please, come in."
He entered and immediately began inspecting the kitchen and bathrooms.
The taps were clogged.
The sinks were blocked.
The drains filled with dust and grime accumulated over decades.
June rolled up her sleeves and returned to her own tasks. She washed the bedsheets and pillow covers, scrubbing each one carefully. She tied a rope in the backyard, looping it between two sturdy posts to hang the laundry to dry in the island breeze.
The plumber worked steadily. Within an hour, the water flowed freely again, drains unblocked, and the kitchen sinks clean.
June handed him the coins she had saved, a small payment, and thanked him quietly.
Then she took a deep breath and surveyed the house. Dust, dirt, and years of neglect had left every corner needing attention.
But June didn't hesitate.
She grabbed rags, buckets, and the last of her lake water and started cleaning the rooms one by one. Sweeping floors, scrubbing counters, wiping tables—every task reminded her of control, survival, and independence.
By late afternoon, the sun slanted through the cracked windows, painting golden streaks across the freshly cleaned floors. The house, while old and worn, began to feel like a place she could live in.
She paused, hands on her hips, and looked around the quiet, desolate villa.
This island. This house. Her life—her survival—had finally begun in earnest.