Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 987

Chapter 987: Chapter 987

That afternoon, Grace and Jude walked hand in hand to river shrine. Each step echoed new life, watched and sheltered. They released ribbons carrying children’s laughter into water. A watcher next to bridge dipped mist into the arc, catching sound, carrying it along.

Back at orchard, wives had built a platform between saplings, crafted stage for watchers and humans alike. They arranged seats carved beneath boughs. As sun sank, wives brought offerings on stage: bread, fruit, seeds, song. Curtains of ribbons framed platform.

Children lined front benches.

Watchers assembled stage side; wives took their place; watchers glowed.

Jude and Grace stepped forward. Grace touched the shard placed there long ago. Light pulsed under her finger; watchers responded. She lifted her voice in simple melody, the first song taught in watchers’ glyph rhythm. Notes soft, shaped like mist. Jude joined with soft guitar chords.

Wives added harmonies. Children clapped. Watchers responded with pulses of light in time. Mist shaped around stage like applauding gestures.

They held that song like a vow. When last chord died, watchers pulsed once, then drifted away to star-lit sky edge.

The crowd released in hush.

Later, Jude and Grace held each other beneath watchers’ gathering as night cooled. "We built a shared song," he murmured.

She kissed his chest. "One day, they’ll remember us."

"Then our children will remember them too."

They drifted into sleep under watchers’ twilight, safe and open.

The next morning, dawn came full. The watchers remained lit along orchard and stage. Wives prepared breakfast and children practiced glyph chants. Jude and Grace watched, knowing that the next Chapter would take them deeper still, not just through forest, but across island, through memory, toward horizon.

They looked at each other and nodded.

Together, they would walk with watchers, within a world shaped by roots, flow, and story.

Memory alive. Future begun.

Mist curled through the orchard at dawn, tracing the saplings with tender fingers of fog. Jude emerged, barefoot, carrying the morning’s offerings, a woven basket of fresh fruit, a jar of honeyed water, a bundle of flower petals. Grace followed quietly, wrapped in a shawl of woven vines. The watchers, now fully integrated into daily life, drifted gently among the saplings, their presence as natural as the birdsong.

They laid the offerings at the base of the central fig tree, the heart of their home, and stepped back. The watchers hovered, watching, but not judging. Light pulsed gently around the tree’s trunk, responding. This was not ritual; it was remembrance made living.

Twelve wives gathered, each carrying her own basket of tokens. Susan held a braided root necklace; Scarlet carried a feathered charm; Serena brought a carved wooden bowl; Layla held high a clay pot filled with incense; Zoey offered a woven mat; Lucy carried a painted scroll; Rose pressed flowers into clay; Emma held a shard of the watchers’ mural; Sophie brought seeds from the cave; Stella offered a waterclay jug; Natalie a basket of herbs; Grace held petals of moss-leaf. Jude carried watchers’ shard and honey bread. One by one they laid their gifts, stepping back to watch.

The watchers responded with ripples of light. Some drifted to each offering, crouching in acknowledgment before returning to sacred silence. Grace whispered, "They remember our everyday devotion."

Jude nodded. "Memory isn’t grand gestures, it’s what we uphold every morning."

They embraced beneath the glowing glyphs. The watchers lingered as if to bless their unity.

Later that morning, they gathered for a planning council. The watchers circled above but did not intrude. Jude drew chalk lines in the soil, mapping routes they intended to forge, new paths toward mountain creek, western grove, and the shipwreck beach. Each path would bear watchers’ glyph markers and memory tokens. The wives, each nodding, assigned tasks: planting guideposts, recording glyphs, gathering food for journeys, teaching children watchers’ language. The watchers drifted lower, as if listening intently.

By midday, they split into teams. Jude and Grace, with Scarlet and Serena, climbed toward the mountain’s creek. Susan and Rose, with Lucy and Emma, ventured to western grove collecting herbs. Others maintained camp, the shrine, and the riverbank.

Jude’s group followed the creek path, stepping over stones slick with moss. The watchers glided ahead, absent footprint but guiding light. Birds flitted overhead; creek gurgled over smooth rocks. Scarlet spotted carved glyphs at the creek flat, a spiral with rays. Jude brushed shallow water to reveal clarity beneath. "We’re crossing another threshold," he said softly. Grace laid petals on the glyph while Serena traced watchers’ shard over its lines. The glyph shimmered.

Deeper up they found a stone seat in a grove, its backrest etched with watchers and humans, coexisting beneath mountain trees. They sat, paused, breathed. Grace pressed her ear against the cool stone. "It hums with memory."

Serena laid seed clusters in the grooves. Scarlet placed a ribbon loop. The watchers glowed bright for a moment, then dimmed to horizon light.

Descending back, they paused at a pool fed by hidden waterfall, rinse their feet, and let children splash at their heels, laughed softly. The watchers gathered on the rim, silhouettes in mist. Jude smiled. "Let them see love and laughter too."

By dusk, each team returned, camp radiating warmth. The watchers settled among saplings and cairns. Fire crackled beneath rising stars. The wives brought their findings and tokens to central fire. Each reported their experience, glyph at creek, herbs found in grove, newborn saplings by river shrine. Growth was everywhere memory was honored.

Jude stepped forward with Grace. "Tomorrow we take the children to the shrine at the broken bridge. We teach them watchers’ language, our language, through song and memory."

Grace added, "We pass stories forward. We make this home multigenerational."

They sang then, soft lullaby of island ritual. Children closed their eyes as watchers’ forms spun song-lights above.

Night passed under watchers’ glimmer. In the morning, they formed procession toward broken bridge shrine. Children held Jade stones and ribbons. The wives guided them. Jude and Grace led. Watchers lined the perimeter.