They woke up, stepped outside of their cave in the rock, walked down through the greenery and to a creek to gather water. They would then walk back, boil it, use it to clean and save some for themselves to have with breakfast. They’d then look at some images of people they once knew, then walk to the ocean’s edge. All of this was in close proximity, thankfully, and even more thankful they were for having access to freshwater.

No other land visible, no sign of human activity.

They would stare for a long time, and it was always the same amount of time, then go about the rest of their day.

Usually it was spent trying to make something but never quite getting there, and ensuring the health of the biota on their bit of land. Ensuring things were in a balance, in a state of preservation.

Come the evening, they would prepare themselves some more food and stare at the images of people they once knew, until it came time that they would need to rest for the following day, and this cycle repeated day in, day out. Always looking out to the ocean, always seeing nothing to suggest human presence. And so on it went. And this was their routine. Another day like any other, had they not broken their routine that morning.

How long had it been since they saw someone else?

The seas had risen over time, over generations, and eventually it picked up pace, then started slowing again. They were fortunate to be with a group of people who had to set sail from where they once lived, for it was steadily pulled under the waves. Boats headed in all directions, with a hope to find others, and a hope to find larger land. Theirs was the only to make it to the bit of land they came across, and it was with a small family, too.

And the years went by, and they watched the people grow old whilst they did not. They watched the children grow old and they taught what they could, but there was only so much. And over those years, one did not get to grow old. They were unfortunate to pass before they reached their middle years.

There were times when the boat was used to try and chart and find others, and at times this search would go for months, and they’d come back to the family with no success. The boat had to be used sparingly, for tools and materials for maintenance were limited, and there weren’t any more that could be easily procured from the island they found. Too many trees gone at any given time could destabilise the area, and even then, the tools would wear and eventually break. Everything had to be considered.

When the last of the family passed, leaving just them on their own., they set out once more. They set out for months, countless, and they sailed, and they saw nothing. Sure, bits and pieces of land here and there, but nothing to sustain human life, and so they headed back. In attempts to repair after, the last of the tools, already worn, finally gave. Unable to be repaired themselves, the boat was pulled out and left to fall apart and be reclaimed.

Early on they spent their days measuring the tidal levels, looking for some sort of change. A consistency over years and years, and perhaps decades, and the tides did rise, but they slowed, and eventuality found an even level. And they kept doing this until they eventually stopped.

Here and there bits and pieces of something that could be from another person washed up or passed by the island, but it was never more than anything that suggests debris making its way around the world. Nothing new, and over time less and less recognisable.

And so their days moved like clockwork, passing with the winds, passing with the tides. How long had it been? Decades? Centuries? They didn’t know. They just kept going, kept surviving the best they could, kept going through the routine, never aging and getting lucky enough to not need repairs.

They stared at the images and they longed, for everything was fresh. They stared out over the ocean, their thoughts not there, or perhaps far beyond knowing, for they were only the thoughts of their own, and they had no one to share them with.

They cleaned, and ate, and cleaned some more, and slept and woke, and on and on it went, set in routine with little variance. The island was preserved as well as it could be, and its biota kept thriving, and they were there, with only their island, the occasional passing creatures, their memories and themselves.

How long had it been since they last saw someone alive, when a boat arrived? Or at least, what looked like a boat.

It was in the dawn. For the first time in many, unceasing days, they broke their routine and came to the shore before first light. Something compelled them to come. Something drew them there. They walked down, they stood there, staring out. There was nothing. They stared, wondering, trying to discern the source of what was compelling them, drawing them to the shoreline. Nothing. But something felt different.

Gradually, over the minutes, something was different. Something faint, but being revealed by the first threads of light weaving across the sky. Something they hadn’t seen for a while, and it was approaching at a steady pace.

And it landed as dawn was preparing for sunrise, and colour was coming into the great expanse above. And it came to shore, and off it people, recognisably people, left the boat, and pointed in surprise, and ran up to them. Carrying tears, the people spoke, and in all the languages they knew, this was one new to them. And they were so overwhelmed with relief, sadness, joy, grief, with everything, that they felt nothing.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 21:49:45

Slow. Slower than desired. Could be better, but I’m quite happy with the result.

I had this idea of writing about someone who was stuck and isolated for some unfathomable amount of time, then having people in their lives again but being unable to communicate in whatever form available (in this case, verbally) due to how much language had changed. If the person just had an unreasonably long life, that’d be interesting, but here I made them more a robot than anything else. Anyway, I had this idea a while ago and finally got it down here, and yeah, it’s rough. It’s rally rough, but I am happy with how it turned out.

Written at Killara.