He didn’t stumble out of the desert. He walked.

He no longer searched for rescue. That phase had passed—burned off like morning fog. The desert had stripped him down, then taught him how to build. Now, he marked.

He hadn’t spoken in days. Words felt wasteful out here—like pouring water into sand. The desert taught him silence, taught him to listen to wind and shadow instead. 

He’d been walking for hours. Maybe days. The desert doesn’t count time—it just stretches it. His boots were worn thin, his breath dry as bone, and the silence had started humming.

He didn’t choose the desert. The wreck did that for him. 

The ship didn’t sink—it shattered. Midnight tide, no warning. Just a groan, a snap, and steel folding like paper. He hit the water hard, lungs full of salt and stars. When he crawled ashore, the land didn’t greet him. It just stared back—bare, silent, and wide.