It’d taken us months to get used to modern conveniences.

And only hours to relax into primitiveness.

Coco had stitched my heart with love as she’d squeezed me so tight before bed. Her body trembled with excitement at returning where she’d been raised, back in the sea where she’d been born, back where she belonged.

Now, the island was quiet.

And Galloway and I had finally gathered the courage to open the carved wooden box and say hello to my bracelets, passport, and unfixable cell-phone. Amongst our left-behind belongings were Mr. Whisker Wood (Pippa’s carved cat), and my birthday heart from Galloway.

I hated that we’d left them alone.

But now we were back, and I’d never take such things for granted again.

Together, we’d inserted the memory card with so much precious reminiscing into the new waterproof device we’d brought with us.

The first video had ruined us.

The second had decimated us.

But as we spent the night welcoming ghosts into our heart, we shed sadness in favour of thankfulness for such precious playbacks.

The day Coco said her first word.

The day Conner earned her undying affection and bragged about it for weeks. We were all so skinny and sunburned. So much wilder and on the fringe of survival than we’d thought. Yet our laughter and smiles were pure and besotted.

“I miss him.” My voice fell onto our leaf-stuffed bed.

This interlude in our old home wouldn’t last long. Galloway had already contracted a local building firm to camp on our island and help erect our forever house. Soon, the palm tree walls and bamboo floor would be surplus and unwanted.

But for now, I’d never felt more content.

“I don’t think that will ever change, Estelle.” G hugged me harder. “But at least, he knows how much he was loved. He’s happy, wherever he is.”

The moon crested over the horizon as hours ticked past and we watched video after video, inspected photo after photo.

And when we finally grew drowsy, my thoughts switched to the torn page of my notebook that I’d cast into the sea in a brittle plastic bottle.

Had anyone found it? Had anyone read the hardship of someone who didn’t know what she’d been given?

It didn’t matter anymore.

Bottle or no bottle.

Message or no message.

I’d finally listened.

I was home.

Chapter Eighty-Three

...............................................

G A L L O W A Y

......

EPILOGUE

ONE & HALF YEARS LATER

“THEY’RE HERE, G.”

I glanced at Estelle as she entered Coco’s room.

I’d just tucked my daughter into bed, kissing her browned cheek, loving how beautiful she looked amongst driftwood furniture and her starfish-shaped bed.

She’d fallen asleep before I’d finished reading her favourite book on humpback whales.

We’d moved into our new home two months ago after a successful build with four local craftsmen. We had everything we could ever dream of and had introduced a piece of the city we’d run from. Glass and steel made up the front part of the house, soaring above the canopy, granting perfect views to the achingly beautiful vista beyond.

The abode was understated but sturdy; built on stilts if there was ever a tsunami. And at night, the glass would glow with candles, looking like a lighthouse for lost souls.

We’d even built a small turret as a look-out for incoming guests and when the sun set over the woods, it illuminated the crash site, bouncing off the broken fuselage of the doomed helicopter that’d introduced us to our chosen end.

We hadn’t discarded it.

The forest was its resting spot, just like the beach was ours.

Tiptoeing to the exit, I smiled at my wife. Her stomach billowed over her bikini bottoms, a cute bump through her ebony sarong.

Four months pregnant.

However, unlike the horror of the last pregnancy, we were both calm and collected with a birthing plan in place, medical team on standby, and the fastest speedboat we could buy tethered to our newly built dock.

Her eyes glowed as I bent to kiss her.

I didn’t need to ask what was here.

The turtles.

Late December had arrived, and, with perfect precision, our leathered friends had returned.

“Fancy playing nursemaid to yet another egg laying?” She smiled, looping her fingers with mine and guiding me down the open-air steps.

Our house blended modern and rustic, taking inspiration from priceless architecture that I’d studied and the natural beauty of Fiji. It could be called a tree house with its segmented zones and open-air corridors.

Shade was granted by louvers and automatic shutters, cascading away to reveal stars and galaxies at night. If it rained, we got wet dashing from the open-plan kitchen and lounge to our bedrooms.

But we didn’t care.

We lived freely with no worries to ruining clothes or messing hairstyles. That triviality didn’t matter.

“Want to grab a drink and make a night of it?” I asked as we traded polished floorboards for sand.

“Sure.”

Coco would sleep the night away, giving us time to do whatever the hell we wanted.

I knew what I wanted.

My wife.

Together, we headed to our palm tree and bamboo house which had turned into a convenient storage for food, toys, and awesome hang out for Coco.

Soon, she’d have a brother or sister to play with.

I couldn’t wait.

The large fridge where a lot of our seafood was kept fresh and locally brewed craft beers were stored ran off the solar panels I’d installed the first month we’d arrived.