I don't remember how I came to.The sand was hot, the sun burned my skin, and the sea whispered softly—as if in pity.I lay there, unable to move.My whole body ached, and inside there was only emptiness.
"Maria…"Her name hovered on my tongue, but I couldn't even say it out loud.The tears seemed to have dried together with the sea salt on my face.
I barely managed to lift myself up.Every movement came with effort, as if the world itself had grown heavier.With great difficulty, I gathered a few dry branches, coaxed out a spark with trembling hands, and lit a fire the old way—by friction.The flames warmed my hands, but not my soul.
I stared into the fire as if it were a window—hoping to see at least a shadow, at least some sign that this wasn't a dream.But there was only darkness and ash.
When the sky turned black, I lay down right on the sand.I thought I would fall asleep, but then… I heard it.
A thin, drawn-out sound of a flute.It seemed to drift on the wind—sometimes closer, sometimes farther away.I froze, trying to understand where it was coming from.
The melody was sad and strangely familiar.As if someone were playing inside my head.I listened, barely breathing.
The sound lasted until dawn.When the first rays of sunlight touched the water, the flute fell silent.
I didn't know whether it had been a dream, a hallucination, or someone alive.But I understood one thing:I was not alone.
In the morning, after waking up,I walked along the shore—looking for footprints, shadows, anything at all.But there was nothing except sand, wind, and the traces of my own feet.No water. No food.
My head throbbed from the heat, my vision blurred.I tried not to think, not to feel.
In the evening, again—the same sound.The flute.Quiet, as if mocking my despair.
I wanted to shout back, but I couldn't.I had no strength left.I lay there silently, staring at the sky and remembering the best moments I had shared with Maria.I barely fell asleep—with the feeling that she was near.Near, but only in my memories.
At dawn, I gathered myself.Palm trees, the sea, the heat—it all felt eternal.I noticed a tall tree with green coconuts hanging from it.
I climbed up, clinging to the bark, tearing the skin on my palms.I could barely hold on—there was neither strength nor desire left.Only the will to live kept me going.
With great effort, I pulled down one coconut and threw it to the ground.Then I climbed down quickly.I cracked it open with a stone—and for the first time in three days, I tasted life.
The sweet juice burned my throat, and something like a new breath flared up in my chest.
I lifted my head to the sky.There was no flute.Only the wind.
Toward evening, I lay down, hoping to fall asleep quickly—in the hope that I would see my wife in my dreams.But suddenly…the flute began to play again.
Its melody seemed to call out—either showing the way, or summoning someone—perhaps me myself.