He sat on the sand, surrounded by a sea of SOS signals. He realized then that he wasn't a lone castaway on a physical island. He was part of a vast, invisible archipelago of lonely souls, all throwing their hearts into the dark, hoping to hit something solid. He wasn't alone in his loneliness—and strangely, that was enough to keep him upright.
As far as his eyes could see—hundreds, then thousands of glass necks were bobbing in the surf, rolling onto the sand like transparent logs. He ran to the water’s edge, his heart hammering against his ribs. He grabbed one, then another, then ten more.
Every single one contained a scrap of paper. He uncorked a blue gin bottle and read: “I’ve been lost for so long. Is anyone out there?”
The tide didn't just bring water to the shores of the island; it brought silence. For two years, the castaway had spoken only to the gulls and the palm trees, his voice growing thin and rusted like an old hinge.