"The rum tasted like the ocean today, bitter."
— Mike, Island Journal, Page 3
Mike stuffed the yellowed pages back into the bottle and jammed the cork in hard.
He told himself he was losing his mind. The flower meant nothing. The old woman in Hawaii — just a coincidence.
But the thought itself unsettled him. He hadn't turned anything over in his mind, not seriously, in a very long time.
He tried to return to his routine: drink, stare, sleep.
But that day, the alcohol stopped working.
The rum hit his tongue and did nothing — none of the old numbness. Just a bitterness he couldn't place.
No matter which corner of the cabin he moved to, his eyes kept finding their way back to the green glass bottle on the table. It sat there in the dust like a small headstone, radiating a silence that had weight to it.
It was trying to say something.
Mike could feel it — broadcasting on a frequency only someone who had died once could hear.
By afternoon, he couldn't take it anymore.
He grabbed the bottle, raised his arm to hurl it out the window — and stopped. He just stood there, holding it, for a long moment. Then he grabbed the wrinkled Hawaiian shirt off the back of his chair and walked out.
He went to the only shop on the island: Noah's Ark.
He arrived close to noon. The smell of grilled fish reached him before he even got through the door, drifting out from the living quarters behind the shop. He swallowed without thinking — he couldn't remember the last time food had meant anything to him.
The owner, Noah, was in his mid-fifties — short and round, dark-skinned, with a belly that preceded him into every room. His ukulele was almost never out of his hands. His favourite thing to say was I am the happiest man on this island — and the way he said it, with that smile that left no room for argument, made it hard to disagree. In nine years, Mike had never had a real conversation with him. Noah's warmth, unprompted and unconditional, was more than Mike knew what to do with. But Noah never pushed. He fed people when they needed feeding, laughed when he felt like laughing, and never asked questions.
Noah looked up when Mike came in and broke into a grin. Hey, old friend — help yourself to whatever you need. Fresh bread just came in, and there's fruit and vegetables on the shelf. You can't live on hot dogs and canned food forever.
Before he'd finished the sentence, the curtain behind the counter swung open and a round, solid woman came bustling out, a plate in each hand, hollering at Noah to come eat. She spotted Mike, stopped for half a second, and switched on a wide smile. Hey Mike — you eat lunch yet? Wait right there. She didn't wait for an answer. She disappeared back through the curtain and returned moments later with a heaped plate — grilled fish, a few pieces of roasted breadfruit, still hot. She pushed it into his hands, yelled at Noah one more time to come eat, and vanished back inside.
Mike took it and said thank you. The words came out stiff.
He set the plate down on the corner of the counter, reached into his pocket, and carefully unfolded a few crumpled dollar bills, smoothing them before sliding them toward Noah. "Noah — can I borrow your phone? Mine got waterlogged years ago." His voice came out rough, like a hinge that hadn't been turned in a long time.
Noah raised his eyebrows, said nothing, and pulled his phone from his pocket with a grin. Of course, brother. Use it as long as you need. He tore off a few paper towels and left them on the counter, told Mike he was going in for lunch, to leave the phone there when he was done — and reminded him that Lina's grilled fish was best eaten hot. Then he, too, disappeared through the curtain.
The shop went quiet. From behind it came the noise of Noah's family at the table — Noah's laughter, Lina's voice raised at the kids, the clatter of pots and bowls. The sounds leaked through from another world.
Mike didn't reach for the phone. He picked up the plate first and started eating.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten like this. Nine years of not caring — hot dogs, bread, canned whatever, anything that required no effort, as long as there was some drinks to wash it down. Every time he came in to buy alcohol, if Lina was there, she'd press something homemade into his hands on the way out. He used to refuse. Eventually Noah and Lina wore him down and he stopped trying. In return he always overpaid — they refused at first, but over time it became an unspoken arrangement between them, accepted on both sides without comment.
He worked through half the plate, then cracked open a bottle of water and drained it in one go. Something that had been dead a long time seemed to stir — and for a moment he didn't know what to do with that. He leaned against the counter and stayed still for a while. Then he wiped his hands with the paper towel and picked up the phone.
His fingers trembled slightly. He dialed from muscle memory — a number he had known by heart for years, and never once let himself call.
Ring — ring —
Each tone felt like a lash across his nerves. He wanted to hang up. He wanted to run.
"Hello?"
A familiar voice — and also a stranger's. Bright, full of energy, the background noise of a television and laughter bleeding through.
The sounds of people still living.
Mike opened his mouth. His throat locked.
"Hello? Hello? Who is this? Say something." George's impatience came through clearly.
"…It's me." Mike forced out the words.
Silence on the other end. Dead silence. The television noise seemed to vanish.
Several seconds passed. Then George's voice came back — shaking, fractured with disbelief:
"…Mike? Is that really you? You're still ali—" A pause. He didn't finish.
"Yes. It's me. I'm still alive." Mike finished the sentence for him.
The words were so hard to say. And so absurd.
The next five minutes were George — shouting, demanding answers, barely coherent. Mike listened without speaking until the storm passed.
"Listen to me, George." Mike looked at the bottle in his hand. "I think I'm losing it. I found something. I need your help."
"You son of a bitch — nine years, and that's what you've got to say?" The silence that answered him seemed to take something out of George. His voice dropped. "Fine. Whatever you need. But where are you? I have to see you first."
"Forget where I am. I'm sending you a photo — there's some kind of foreign writing on it. I need you to find someone who can read it and tell me what it says."
He hung up.
He carefully took the bottle from his pocket, drew out the roll of paper, photographed the first page, sent it, and carefully put them back to the bottle again. Noah came back out from behind the curtain carrying his own lunch. Mike handed the phone back with an apology — his friend might call again.
Noah waved him off cheerfully. No problem, anytime. He glanced at Mike's plate and nodded with satisfaction. That's right, my borther— eat it while it's hot. Then he mentioned that his third son Tuck had come back from fishing yesterday with a thirty-pound tuna, fresh as it gets — Mike should let Lina pack some for him before he left.
Mike picked up a case of beer and pushed his empty water bottle across the counter to pay.
What's the rush, Noah said. Your friend's going to call back, isn't he.
Mike rubbed the back of his neck and said he'd come back later. He paid, picked up what was left of the grilled fish, tucked the beer under his arm, and headed for the door.
He'd barely crossed the road when Noah's voice boomed out behind him: "He's calling back!" — the shout of a man who'd just won something.
Mike turned around and took the phone.
George sounded wired. "Mike, this is complicated. I called the Chinese translators at the language school— they said the handwriting's too messy, some kind of classical style, couldn't make it out. One of them thought I was pranking him."
The light went out of Mike's eyes. "Forget it." He started to hang up.
"Wait — I found someone. Chinese is her first language. Her name is Jane. She's Chinese-American, came over with her parents when she was a kid, works as a translator too." George paused. "She says she needs some time, but she can read it."
"So it's Chinese." Mike said flatly. "Did she say what it means?"
"Too much to get into over the phone. Tell me where you are. I'll come to you."
Mike knew George. If he didn't see him in person, he wouldn't say a word about what he knew.
He said quietly: Fine. And sent the address.
"Mike? Chuuk? Where on earth is —" George was still talking.
Mike had already hung up.
He handed the phone back to Noah without a word, gave a small nod, and walked out with the beer and what was left of the fish.
The green glass bottle pressed against his chest from inside his shirt pocket, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with its size.
Inside, Noah watched him go, shook his head with a smile, and plucked two notes on his ukulele — slow and soft, left to fade on their own.