"Some messages are sent across oceans. Some across lifetimes."—Mike, Island Journal, Page 248
The phone had barely rung once before it was answered.
"Hello? Who is this?"
"…George."
There was a heartbeat of silence.Then a half-shouted voice, cracking with disbelief:
"Mike?! Holy shit—it's you?! You're alive?! Where the hell have you been all these years?"
Mike didn't answer that. He just said, quietly, "George… I need your help."
George's voice launched into overdrive, stammering like a misfiring engine."You vanished, man! I thought you were dead—I asked everyone. I even poked around with the goddamn CIA! Then I heard your squad got hit, and Maria, Mia…"His breath hitched. A muffled sob leaked through.
"Where did you go, brother?" His voice softened, fragile. "Are you… alright?"
Mike paused."I don't know," he said hoarsely.Then: "I found a letter. In a drifting bottle."
George inhaled sharply, attempting levity."Don't tell me—it's a treasure map?"
"No. A real letter. Dated 1918. I can't read it, but I think it's Chinese."
The other end of the line fell quiet.
"1918? Are you sure?"
"The paper's brittle. The ink's faded. There's a small flower on the back—looks like a plum blossom."
George took a moment before answering.
"You want me to find someone to translate it?"
"I'm just… curious. I want to know what she wrote." Mike's tone was even. "You were a linguist once. I figured you'd know someone."
"I studied Arabic. But yeah… I know who to call. You can send me photos. Or better—just tell me where the hell you are, and I'll come to you."
"…I don't really want people knowing where I am."
George snapped, "You don't trust me?"
Mike was quiet for two seconds."Chuuk Island."
"Where? Never even heard of it… Man, you really went off the grid."
"It's in the Pacific. Not exactly easy to get to."
"I don't care if you're on Mars," George muttered. "I'll still find you."
One week later. Chuuk Island.
George rushed off the plane and practically tackled Mike into a hug.
"Jesus, bro," he laughed through gritted teeth. "You look like Robinson Crusoe."
Mike didn't hug back. He just stood there and let him hold on.
Inside the shack, the air smelled of damp wood and lingering rum. Bottles lay scattered across the floor—some empty, some half full—like dreams he'd abandoned halfway through.
George nudged one aside with his foot."This is how you've been living?"
Mike said nothing.
George cleared his throat. "Alright. Where's the letter?"
Mike opened a drawer and handed him the curled, yellowed page.
George squinted. "Yep. Chinese… I'll call Jane Chen. Native speaker. Former military."
He dialed. Put her on speaker.
"Hi Mike," came a warm, confident voice. "This is Jane."
"…Thanks for doing this," Mike said.
"George sent me the photos, but they're too blurry. I'd rather see the real thing. Lucky for you, I've got two months off and nowhere to go—if you don't mind, I could come out."
Mike hesitated. "It's not the most… comfortable place."
"She didn't tell you?" George cut in, grinning. "She's an Iraq vet too. Did three years in the desert."
"…Alright then," Mike said.
Four days later. Jane arrived.
Mike handed her a coconut, its shell slick with morning dew."Thanks," she smiled.
George, standing nearby, snorted."Seriously? I've been here for days and I never got a coconut."
Mike rolled his eyes.
"Let's see the letter," George said.
Jane unfolded the fragile paper with the care of someone holding bone-china.
She read silently for a few moments before speaking.
"Her name was Ouyang Yumei. I'm guessing 'Xiaomei' was her given name."
She continued:"'The storm is getting worse. The captain says we might not make it through the night. I've prepared myself to die.'"
Mike sat by the window, his fingers clenched white around the neck of a beer bottle.
"'Mother, I've brought shame upon you. You raised me through such hardship, and still… I've done the unforgivable. I was humiliated in the family house. I made a terrible mistake…'"
Jane's voice slowed."'I think I died three years ago. Tonight is just fate finishing the job. I didn't die in the storm. I died the night I was betrayed.'"
Silence. It draped over them like fog.
"She asked whoever found this letter to bring it back—to the Zhang family, in Huixian, Guangdong. The rest is mostly illegible."
Jane lowered her voice."I've translated a lot of old letters. But this one… it feels like she's still speaking."
Mike's reply came cold and flat. "That's it?"
Jane nodded."That's it. But this isn't just some bottle washed ashore."
That night, Mike didn't drink.
The bottle of rum sat unopened on the windowsill, catching moonlight.
He lay in bed, the same words echoing over and over:
I didn't die in the storm. I died the night I was betrayed.
Sleep came like the tide.
Dreams crept in like fog.
He stood before an old ancestral house.
A girl knelt outside a shrine. Her hair was tangled, her robe torn.
An elderly woman forced a bowl of black medicine into her mouth.
She fought back, eyes burning with fear and fury.Tears mixed with bitterness as the liquid spilled down her chin.
In the distance, a man's shadow slipped away into the garden.Mike recognized the silhouette—but couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
Then—porcelain shattered.
He jolted awake.
At dawn, the sea breeze carried salt and memory.
Mike sat beneath the slanted coconut tree, watching the horizon blush with sunrise.
George approached quietly."You okay? Woke up and couldn't find you."
Mike didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on the water.
"George… I want to figure this out."
"You mean… the letter?"
Mike nodded slowly."I can't explain it. But I want to return it. To her family."
George didn't press further. He understood.Some grief has no words—only a direction to walk toward.
He nodded."I'm with you."