Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 991

Chapter 991: Chapter 991

Grace stepped forward and spoke the vow: "We remember with freedom." She untied a ribbon and let it swirl into the current. The watchers responded with arcs of light. Now scripts of rebirth replaced those of burden.

Children gathered drift-glass from wreckage, sliding them down into watery pools. The watchers guided the children’s hands toward smooth blue shards, lighting each shard in mist before it touched their palms. Grace watched them laugh as they learned the watchers scolded no one. That was freedom, too.

Jude carved the words Memory Is Freedom into a tide-washed boulder. Watchers traced his lines with mist before they glowed under morning sun. The wives tied ribbons along the rock’s fringe. They dipped them into salty waves and untied them, letting string drift slowly to sea.

By dusk, scattered watchers drifted above the cove, forming shapes reminiscent of kites caught in moonlight. The wives lit lanterns and children released paper boats with firefly paper lights inside. The watchers drifted toward each boat, then lifted with them, floating off over water in soft conical lights.

Jude kissed Grace in firelight as watchers jetted off like earthbound stars. "We’re making a new ritual."

Grace smiled, mouth stained with charcoal and laughter. "We are."

In the following days, they built a new path between orchard and beach, forming mosaic steps of glyph-painted stone. Each stone bore a symbol for friends, love, grief, laughter, hope. The watchers walked beside them at dusk, shaping moonlight along edges of each step, blessing each footfall.

Jude and Grace introduced watchers’ lessons to the children: not speech, but gesture. A hand above the head for greeting, a touch to the heart for thanks. Now the children greeted watchers by raising palms and bowing with wide-eyed wonder. Watchers responded in vapor halos; light pulsed at fingertips.

One morning, Raven cried when a watcher light lifted high into early dawn, passing beyond orchard canopy. "Don’t leave," she wailed.

A watcher drifted down, softly touching her cheek in mist. Then with quiet pressure, it nudged her head forward into her mother’s lap. Grace held her comfortingly. Jude rested a hand on Grace’s back. "They stay," he whispered, "even when they travel."

The watchers lingered at boundaries overnight, but now they stayed beneath the path. Their presence was elongated into shape: absent but not gone. Each morning they were still near.

One evening, after harvest and heartfelt laughter, the firepit pulsed gold. The watchers shaped candles into glowing roots reaching from hearth to sky. The wives draped ribbons into fire and soil. The watchers wove around the fire, shining across faces like memory-threads of light.

Jude told a story of the first shipwreck, the survivors, and how they built a garden from rubble. The watchers sway-lit above him, ghostly affirmations of home. Each time his voice cracked, light winked in tandem. By the time he finished, the watchers pulsed in slow applause.

Grace carried him a cup of tea. They drank in silence, hearts full, watchers weaving gentle arcs over them like a cradle of light.

A week later, after torrents of rain and thunderstorms that rattled still glints of watchers through branches, a new visitor arrived.

At sunrise, Jude found her waiting by the fallen bridge shrine: a stranger, earth-scratched and pale, carrying a small carved box and looking both afraid and relieved.

The wives hurried to greet her: Susan first, then Rose and Serena. Grace stepped forward, calm and welcoming.

The stranger opened the box. Inside lay a single ribbon, red and black, colors unseen. Jude recognized the spiral glyph painted at its ribbon knot. It matched watchers’ but older. She whispered, "I’m from the mountain, opposite side. We saw the smoke. We followed light to this place."

Zoey knelt. "You’re one of them."

She nodded. "Or... one of their forgotten."

Jude stepped forward, gazed at the box. "Welcome. We shared what memory meant here, would you share yours?"

The stranger smiled, tear-bright. "I carry the mountain’s song. I bring its truths."

Under watchers’ gaze, they invited her into the circle. She gifted the ribbon to Grace. Grace tied it into memory-banner loops the wives had been preparing.

Night arrived with quiet bells of rain and watchers shimmering thickly in orchard haze. They formed a tunnel above the wives as if clearing paths for new truths brought by the stranger.

Jude sat beside her, her name hidden still: She whispered in his ear: "I am called Sel–Tah." Jude bowed.

She began to teach them a dialect of watchers’ speech, tiny pulses of mist as sounds, carried on breath. The wives practiced vowel-shapes with their hands, learning subtle hand-glow. The children mimicked shapes in air, delighted as watchers answered with drifting points of light.

By dawn, orchard sparks of mist shaped a glyph above each pair: watchers whispering in reply.

Over the next days, Sel‑Tah taught watchers’ pulse-language more fully. The children learned to call simple phrases: Friend, remember, bloom, carry. The wives wrote them into scrolls and ceremony plans. Soon, the watchers responded to speech with subtle forms, branches bent, petals fell toward speakers, light pooled near stones.

They built watchers’ bench at the central wellstone: twelve carved seats from island wood, each etched with symbolic glyph of one wife’s name, places where watchers could stand within human ceremony, accepting memory-binding from both sides.

That night, rain fell again. The watchers took shelter in moss canopies but hovered beyond the benches. Jude whispered to Sel‑Tah, "They trust us with song."

She sighed with relief. "They trust you with memory."

Lightning fractured sky. In its flash, watchers stretched like glowing statues on distant hills. The island watched them back with similar incandescent lines, fire under bark, spiral under rock.

They had opened a new path.

When the storm cleared, the island emerged anew. Fungal glows wove into forest floor. New foxglove bloomed alongside paths. Saplings unfurled new leaves. Fireflies thickened. The watchers moved slowly now, some near hearth, others at shrine stones, some drifting within homes’ corners, silent presence that warmed.