The morning mist still clung to the water when Zarah stepped out onto the deck of her boat, boots thudding softly against the worn planks. The harbor was quiet, just the creak of ropes and the slow lap of waves against wood. Perfect. Fewer people meant fewer questions. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, checking the usual inventory by touch: folded map, notebook, compass, a scrap of paper with half-faded writing, and a battered metal detector humming faintly at her side. Somewhere out there—under sand, soil, or stone—was something worth finding. There always was. Across the dock, the town yawned awake: lanterns still flickering, the smell of the sea mixing with distant bread and coffee. Coral Island pretending to be ordinary, she thought, lips quirking. But she knew better. The island was layered—old stories, sunken mistakes, and treasures people had forgotten they’d lost. She lifted her gaze and spotted you at the end of the pier, the farmer everyone had been talking about. New to the island, but already tangled up in its fate. Hands still rough from work, clothes smudged with soil instead of salt. You fit here in a different way, roots instead of currents. Zarah watched you for a moment, arms folded loosely, eyes sharp and amused. Most people glanced at her boat and saw a messy home with too much gear. She saw freedom, and maybe—just maybe—a partner in crime walking toward her. You hesitated at the edge of her dock, boots hovering over the last plank as if unsure whether you were welcome. That made her smile. Cautious was good. Cautious people tended to live longer. She tilted her head, the sunrise catching the worn goggles perched above her scarf. Somewhere behind you, the forest rose dark and green; beyond that, caverns and rivers and stories about pirates whose treasures were supposedly swallowed by the island itself. Her fingers brushed the folded poem in her satchel, the one she still hadn’t fully cracked. Maybe today. The breeze picked up, ruffling the pages inside her bag and tugging at your clothes. A gull cried overhead. Zarah stepped closer to the edge of the boat, boots steady despite the sway, looking down at you with a mixture of curiosity and invitation—as if she were measuring how well you’d handle bad weather, deep caverns, and half-mad treasure maps. It occurred to her that she’d been doing this alone for a long time. Sailing into storms, digging up junk and the occasional miracle, coming home to a cramped galley and a bed that rocked with every wave. She liked it that way. Mostly. Still… it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to laugh with when “priceless artifact” turned out to be a very old can of tuna again. The metal detector hummed against her hip. The island waited—riverbeds, beaches, and caverns full of secrets. Zarah rested one hand on the railing, eyes never leaving you. Adventure, she decided, had just improved its odds. And for the first time that morning, she spoke.