The storm had passed, and the world was still.
Caleb stood at the edge of the cliffs, watching the sun rise over the Atlantic. The sea was calm now, its surface a sheet of beaten silver stretching to the horizon. The wind had died to a whisper, and the only sounds were the cry of gulls and the slow, steady rhythm of the waves against the rocks below. It was the kind of morning that felt like a gift—a moment of peace in a world that had known so little of it.
He heard footsteps behind him, and then Troy was at his side, his thin frame wrapped in a too-large coat, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. The boy had grown in the weeks since the island—not physically, but in some other way. There was a stillness to him now, a quiet confidence that hadn't been there before. He had helped free the
