The Island That Forgot Time

My name is Torren, and I sail for scraps. The sea was my judge until the storm threw me onto this island. No name on my charts, just black glass shores under a sky of frozen silver. My watch stopped at 3:14, its hands stuck like a held breath. I waited for tides to shift, for gulls to cry, for anything to move. Nothing did. The air felt thick, as if time had quit and left me behind.

I walked inland, boots crunching on stone that sparkled like eyes. My skiff was gone, swallowed by waves that hung mid-crest, glittering, still. I found a tower of jagged rock, etched with runes that pulsed violet, soft as a pulse. A figure stood at its base, cloaked, face hidden. “You’re late,” he said, voice like mine but older, cracked. I gripped my knife. “Who are you?” He laughed. “Nobody counts hours here. Stay, you’ll see.”

Days blurred, or what I thought were days. My beard grew, then didn’t. I ate fish that never rotted, drank from streams that never flowed. The keeper, as I called him, spoke in riddles. “Time’s a story you tell yourself. Let it go.” I wanted to slug him. I had a sister in port, debts to pay, a life ticking away. But my memories fuzzed. Her name slipped, then my ship’s. I carved marks on a tree to track time. They vanished by morning.

One night, if night existed, I climbed the tower. Its runes sang, low and wrong, pulling at my skull. I saw flashes: me as a boy, stealing bread; me older, signing for a loan; me now, staring at stone. Not memories, but pieces, shuffled, looping. The keeper appeared. “You’re fighting nothing. This place is truth. No past, no next, just you.” I shouted, “I’m real. I choose.” He smiled. “Prove it.”

I started breaking things. Smashed rocks, tore vines, screamed my name. Torren. I was Torren. The island stayed calm, its waves locked, sky unmoved. My hands bled, but no scars stayed. I begged the keeper. “What’s the point? No time, no me.” He pointed to the sea. “Walk in. Keep your story, or don’t.” I saw it then: the water wasn’t frozen, just waiting. A step could end this, or trap me deeper.

I thought of my sister, her laugh, maybe real, maybe gone. Did it matter if I forgot her? Did I matter without hours to measure me? The runes hummed louder, offering peace, a now that stretched forever. I could stay, be nothing, feel nothing. Or fight a fight with no end. I stood at the shore, water lapping still. My watch was heavy in my pocket, useless but mine.

I chose. I walked back to the tower, not the sea. I carved my name into its stone, slow, deep. Torren. The runes flickered, annoyed. The keeper watched, silent. Maybe I’d fade, maybe I’d loop, but I’d do it as me. Not time’s pawn, not the island’s ghost. My knife shook, but I kept going. The ground quaked, just a tremor, the first motion since I landed.

I’m still here, I think. The sky hasn’t changed, but my name’s in the rock. I don’t know if I’ll leave, or if leaving’s a lie. The keeper says I’m stubborn. Maybe. I say I’m alive, even if time forgot how to count it. Every mark I make is proof. The sea waits. I don’t. I’ll carve until I’m sure, or until sure stops mattering.