Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 1052

Chapter 1052: Chapter 1052

Each wife shook her head as realization dawned. Serena’s eyes filled; Layla’s expression slipped; Natalie clutched her chest. Lucy covered her mouth. Stella blinked, stunned. Emma stared at Sophie. Grace closed her hands into fists.

Grace murmured, voice soft and faraway. "Our children... we carried them."

They all looked at Jude. He lowered his gaze. "I forgot what real was for a moment. I forgot this island was silent."

The weight of absence pressed in. Not a single child’s laughter; no sign of travelers; no temple skeleton of twitching glyphs. The island was still. The wives gathered around Jude and Sophie, tears slipping silently down their cheeks.

Sophie swallowed hard. "I’m sorry. But maybe... maybe the dream means something? Our hearts want that world. Maybe we can build something. Even without children, we can still learn watcher script. We can still plant gardens, carve symbolism."

Jude wrapped arms around her shoulders. "Yes. We can honor the dream in reality."

They stayed there until sunrise, fully painted sky. The wives rested against each other, murmuring names they had given phantom children: "Laurel..." "Raven..." "Sofia..." Each name drifted like prayer.

Mid‑morning found them gathered in the clearing. Jude stood before the tree trunk, lash-ribbon and simple vines tied around it, still empty offerings. He drew breath. "We may have lost the children. Lost the temple. But the dream showed us hope and purpose. We can still build watchersign markers. We can still tend orchards. We can still practice dreamscript and watchersign, even alone. We can honor the memory of that dream by turning it into caretaking for what we have."

His wives looked at each other, tears still in eyes, gratitude in their gaze. Susan pressed her palm to the trunk. "We anchor our hope here. For our life. For this island."

They designated small tasks: Serena and Layla would gather seeds, begin planting orchards again. Zoey and Lucy would start simple glyph carvings on stones and trees. Grace and Sophie would teach watchersign gestures each morning. Stella, Scarlet, and Emma would craft simple watcher-figures from driftwood and vines to hang in trees. Rose and Natalie would bake flat cakes and brew teas for gatherings at dusk. Jude would lead mapping for symbolic paths around the island to honor the dream’s spiral. They would practice watchersong at sunset, though there were no watchers above.

So they began. Sophie and Grace walked among saplings, teaching watchersign to vines and to wind. No children toddler behind them. But they bent to every leaf.

By midday, the wives worked in small groups: Serena sowing seeds in patches across ash soil. Lucy carving glyph cracks into stone. Zoey painted scribbles on bark. Stella lighting a small fire in a pit, touchstone for evening watchersong. Each action was slow, reverent.

At dusk, they gathered around the stone circle laid weeks before, no temple platform, but still a place to gather. Candles flickered where stalks of dried vines stood in a ring. Watchersong rose in a shaky chorus. Lack of watchers above didn’t stop them; they made song for the island, for memory. They lit candles, tied ribbons to saplings. Sophie closed her eyes, hearing a faint echo of the dream. Jude held her hand. He looked at each wife, no children in arms, but their faces glowing with warmth and purpose.

Later, they returned to the treehouse. Sophie found little markers on her pillow, a simple carved stone, a ribbon tied to bedpost. Jude kissed her eyes. "We don’t need children to create beauty."

She nodded. "But I miss their laugh inside me."

He held her close. "So do I."

They lay side by side, listening to the night, only the rustle of leaves. Nothing more. But that night Sophie dreamed again, this time of seeds sprouting in spiral, watched over by invisible watchers. She woke glowing with purpose, realizing the dream was no longer about children but about caretaking, memory, and love growing quietly.

Next morning, she rose determined. Without words she found Jude, took his hand, pointed to sapling. He followed her gaze and smiled. And together they began tying watcher script wraps around tree trunks, tiny glyphs etched by Sophie’s fingers, ribs of the new covenant. No temple, no children, no watchers; but here, on this island, they planted hope.

Jude traced the fresh watcher script Sophie had tied around the sapling. The lines were rough, wobbly, imperfect, some half-remembered from the dream, some created entirely by instinct, but each one held weight. He didn’t ask what they meant. He didn’t need to. Sophie’s hands were trembling, but she held the vine steady, tying it with a careful knot.

"I think they’re watching, even if we can’t see them," she said softly, not looking at him.

Jude nodded. "Or maybe they’re gone. Maybe it’s just us."

She leaned her forehead against the bark. "Then it’ll have to be enough."

Later, as the others emerged from the treehouse, Sophie walked among them, guiding hands to saplings, teaching the movements she remembered. Most had tears in their eyes. Lucy asked her, "Did the dream come from the watchers?"

"I don’t know," Sophie replied, "but we all dreamed it together. Maybe that’s enough to mean something."

They spent the morning in near silence, spread across the clearing, working with new resolve. No one spoke of the children, though the memory of them clung to every movement like a shadow. Stella hummed softly as she shaped a watcher figure out of driftwood, its body long and twisted like the ones they’d seen in their dreams. Grace etched a spiral into the dirt at the center of camp, then began surrounding it with small pebbles, whispering a prayer with each placement.

By noon, they gathered to eat. Natalie had made a stew with root vegetables, and Zoey passed around flatbread toasted on stone. No one said much. They simply sat, eating under the swaying canopy, lost in the quiet ache of shared memory.

Afterward, Susan stood. Her voice was rough but steady. "We can’t change that it was a dream. But the way it felt... how we lived in it... how we raised them together... That was real. The love was real. So we don’t throw it away. We carry it."

Heads nodded around the circle. Rose murmured, "We’ll build a garden in their names."

"And plant watcher script," Emma added. "Everywhere."

They didn’t speak about the possibility of it happening again, whether it was a spell, a collective hallucination, or something else entirely. The mystery didn’t matter as much now. What mattered was what they carried forward.

Jude spent the afternoon helping Layla and Serena dig a path up the western slope, tracing the spiral curve he remembered from the dream. It wouldn’t lead to a temple. There was no temple. But it would lead to something. Maybe a quiet place to sing. Maybe a lookout. Maybe a spot where they could sit together and remember.

As he worked, Jude’s mind wandered. He still saw the faces of the children, bright, wild, laughing. They had been real in the dream. And now they weren’t. That loss pulled deep at his chest, but he didn’t let it show. Not now. Not yet.

Scarlet joined him near the top of the path. She carried a bundle of cloth, and when Jude asked what it was, she unwrapped it to show several small wooden dolls, faceless and rough.

"I couldn’t remember their faces," she said. "I didn’t want to guess. But I needed something to hold."

She placed one of the dolls in the earth at the peak, standing it upright beside a young fern. Jude placed a hand on her shoulder. No words passed between them, but she nodded once and walked back down the slope.

As the sun lowered in the sky, casting golden light across the clearing, the wives gathered again for watchersong. The practice had become ritual, though the watchers never returned. They sang anyway. They sang because the memory mattered. They sang for the ones they had known in their dream, for the peace they had tasted, and for the emptiness they now shared.

The melody drifted on the breeze, thin and haunting, shaped by sorrow and held together by love.

After the song, Sophie stood beside Jude and looked up at the empty sky.

"Even if the watchers never come back," she said, "we’ll keep singing."

He took her hand. "We will."

That night, they lit candles all around the clearing. Not for watchers. Not for gods. But for the children they remembered. For the days they’d lived in a world that had never existed.

Each wife placed something beside the flame, a token, a stone, a drawing, a memory. No words. Just gestures. Just love.

When it was over, they sat together in the dark, arms wrapped around one another, watching the flames flicker and listening to the night wind pass through the trees.

No one spoke of the dream again that night. But in the stillness, it lived inside each of them.