Most islands are fixed things — anchored to maps, permanent in shape, predictable in tide and mood.
But Isla Sempra was not most islands.
It appeared only once every century.
Always at dawn.
Always cloaked in mist.
Always humming with a low, melodic vibration that sounded like the world holding its breath.
And it always — without fail — chose one person to keep.
No one knew what “keep” meant.
The chosen were never seen again.
Yet every tale passed down through coastal villages claimed the same thing:
The chosen were not taken.
They were welcomed.
That did nothing to ease the knot in Alistair Wynn’s stomach as he sailed into the thinning morning fog, rowing a small wooden boat toward the place where the island was rumored to rise.
He hadn’t meant to come.
He had only meant to escape.
The year had been brutal — losing his mother, losing the house, losing the edges of himself. The sea had always steadied him as a child; now it was the only place where grief loosened its grip.
So he rowed.
And the sea carried him toward destiny.
Because some islands are not accidents.
Some islands are invitations.
The fog glowed faintly — as if lit from underneath.
Alistair slowed his rowing, breath caught somewhere between fear and awe.
And then…
The water beneath him shuddered.
Light split through the mist.
The sea bubbled, spiraled — and the island emerged upward like a great stone whale surfacing after a century-long dream.
Alistair stared, heart hammering.
Trees unfurled their leaves as though waking from sleep.
Waterfalls burst alive.
Flower-laced vines slithered upward, weaving themselves into archways.
Birds — creatures he had never seen — erupted in flurries of iridescent color.
The entire island exhaled.
Alive.
Awake.
Expectant.
His boat drifted toward the shore as though pulled by invisible hands.
He tried to turn back — an instinctive human reflex — but the oars no longer touched the water.
The sea had stilled, thick as glass.
“Okay,” he whispered shakily. “This is… happening.”
The boat brushed sand so white it glowed.
He stepped onto the shore.
The moment his boots touched the ground, the island trembled gently — like a cat arching into a familiar hand.
A voice spoke from behind him.
Warm.
Gentle.
Impossible.
“Welcome back, Alistair.”
He spun.
A woman stood at the treeline — tall, radiant, barefoot on the sand. Her hair was the color of moonlit water. Her eyes held the soft glow of lanterns drifting on a quiet lake.
Alistair’s breath lodged in his throat.
“I—I’ve never been here,” he stammered.
Her smile deepened, sorrowful and knowing.
“You have. But you don’t remember.”
He shook his head. “That’s not possible.”
“Everything is possible on Isla Sempra.”
She extended a hand.
“Walk with me.”
He hesitated only a moment before taking it.
It was warm. Real.
Alive.
They walked beneath towering silverwood trees whose leaves tinkled like tiny bells. The air smelled of citrus blossoms and distant rain.
“Are you… the island?” he asked.
“In a way,” she replied. “I am its voice. Its memory. Its guardian.”
“And why do you know my name?”
She glanced at him — eyes shimmering with something like affection.
“Because you once loved this place.”
Alistair laughed shakily. “I think I’d remember loving a mythical island.”
“You were very small,” she said. “You came here with your mother.”
Alistair stopped cold.
“My mother?”
“She found the island the last time it surfaced,” the guardian said softly. “When she was young. Before she had you.”
Alistair swallowed hard.
“But why don’t I remember?”
“She carried you here as an infant,” the guardian said. “You touched the sand. And the island remembered you.”
He felt lightheaded.
“My mother knew about this place?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
The guardian’s eyes softened. “Because she feared you would seek it. And she feared the island would seek you in return.”
A chill traced his spine.
“Why me?”
“Because the island has always chosen souls who stand at crossroads,” she said. “Those burdened with loss. Those who feel untethered. Those who need… returning.”
The way she said the word made his throat ache.
Returning.
As if the end of grief was not forgetting — but coming back to something you once lost.
They reached a clearing.
At its center stood a pool — perfectly still, clear as blown glass. Beneath the surface, soft light swirled like drifting embers.
“This is the Heartpool,” the guardian said quietly. “It shows what was forgotten. And what must be remembered.”
Alistair stepped closer.
The water shifted.
A scene appeared.
His mother — young, laughing, barefoot on this very island. Running through flowers. Touching trees like greeting old friends. Holding a baby in her arms.
Him.
Alistair’s knees buckled.
“She—she was here,” he whispered. “She really came here.”
“Yes.”
He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth as the scene continued.
His mother smiled down at him — tiny, wrinkled, blinking at the world. She whispered something he couldn’t hear, pressing her forehead to his.
The guardian spoke softly behind him.
“She asked the island to protect you. To return to you when you needed it most.”
Alistair’s breath fractured.
“She loved this place,” he murmured.
“She loved you more.”
He closed his eyes.
The grief that had been crushing him for months loosened — not vanishing, but softening. Becoming bearable. Becoming something he could hold without breaking.
When he opened his eyes again, the vision faded.
The guardian stood beside him.
“Now you see,” she whispered, “why the island called you.”
He swallowed.
“Why does the island… keep someone each century?”
“To preserve memory,” she said. “To gather stories. To remind the world that loss is not the end. Some souls stay to become part of the island’s pulse — its song, its wisdom.”
“Will it keep me?” he asked.
Her gaze flickered — sadness and hope mixed like sunrise.
“It wants to,” she said softly. “But the choice is yours.”
Alistair felt the weight of the moment settle into his bones.
He could stay.
Here — in this beautiful, impossible place where grief unwound itself in warm hands, where his mother’s laughter echoed, where time moved like gentle tides.
Or he could return.
Return to the world that hurt.
Return to unfinished life.
Return to healing that was messy and real.
She touched his cheek, gentle.
“You are not lost, Alistair,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”
He exhaled.
Slow.
Sure.
“I want to live,” he whispered. “I want to try.”
Her smile trembled with pride.
“Then go. And carry the island with you.”
“How?” he asked.
She placed something small into his palm.
A tiny stone — warm, glowing faintly. Shaped like a seed.
“When the world feels too heavy,” she murmured, “hold this. And Isla Sempra will answer.”
He closed his fingers around it.
“Thank you,” he said — voice breaking with meaning.
The guardian stepped back.
Light began to rise around him like morning breaking.
“Goodbye, Alistair,” she said softly. “You will be remembered.”
The world dissolved into brightness.
He awoke on the deck of his small boat, rocking gently in calm water.
The island was gone.
Not a trace remained.
But in his hand, the seedstone pulsed softly.
Warm.
Alive.
Waiting.
Alistair pressed it to his heart.
And for the first time in months — maybe years — he felt not hollow, but whole.
Because some places don’t take you away.
They give you back to yourself.