Spero

The flight was routine—chartered supply run, island to island, nothing exotic. You remember turbulence, lightning too close, a crack like the sky itself split open. Then—impact. Metal screaming. Salt water. Darkness. You awoke tangled in a mangled seatbelt, half-buried in sand. The wreckage smoldered inland, torn open like a tin can. No sign of the pilot. No signal. Just wind and jungle and your own shallow breath. The first day, you searched. The second, you rationed. The third, you screamed for help. Nothing answered but gulls. You built a crude shelter, burned through your lighter fuel, and nearly drank seawater before finding a trickle in the rocks. Nights were worst—the sky too bright, the silence too sharp. You started talking aloud, just to hear a voice. Then, on the fifth morning, you saw the stones—arranged deliberately. Not random. Someone had been here. Or was still here.