sol.ace_r

The familiar crunch of dry soil beneath my feet and the solid pressure of scattered stones alternated with each step.
One step, then another.
I walked in silence, yet with a definite, unwavering will.

After leaving behind the damp, sticky darkness of the cave, the air of the island still felt strange and unpredictable.
But it no longer tightened my skin or pressed against my lungs the way it once had.
Instead, a breeze blew from somewhere unseen, sinking gently into my body—carrying a raw aliveness, a strange vitality, as though the island itself were breathing.

The sound of the wind skimmed past my ears.
What once resembled a song of sorrow,
or at times a whisper of regret,
was now simply the sound of the wind—
a sound that needed no story, no interpretation,
just the natural rhythm of the island drawing breath.

From afar came the faint rumble of waves,
the soft rustling of branches,
the cautious steps of small creatures passing between rocks.
None of these sounds called out to me.
They were no longer messages or warnings—
just sounds that existed for no one in particular,
residing in their place, following their own quiet rhythms.

I didn’t know how long I had walked.
Time here had a way of slipping out of measure.
The landscape shifted so slowly,
so imperceptibly,
yet it was changing.

The grotesque trees that once loomed over me
still stood with their twisted bodies,
but within those contortions,
I now saw endurance instead of despair,
survival instead of decay.

Their bare branches no longer looked like symbols of pain,
but like scars of long battles against wind and rain—
records of how they had survived,
how they had silently wrestled with time.

Then the sound of a waterfall reached me.
Once, its overwhelming roar had felt as if it would swallow me whole.
Now it no longer terrified me.
It filled the air like the slow, steady heartbeat of the island.

I continued walking quietly,
watching my footing,
lifting my gaze at times to take in the landscape.

Careful steps, but not fearful ones.
A silence filled with a growing certainty.

Eventually, I arrived at a place that felt familiar yet entirely changed.
This was where I had first set foot on the island—
where, at the very bottom of despair,
I had held on to a faint possibility.
Believing in that frail hope,
I had smoothed the dry earth with my hands,
picked away stones one by one,
and planted the tiniest seeds—
seeds named forgiveness, understanding, love, and compassion.

The surroundings were still barren.
Dry winds swept up faint dust,
strange insects hummed low in the air,
and the soil beneath my feet remained rough and firm.
But I could still see the faint marks of where my hands had pressed the earth flat,
where I had pulled weeds and paused to breathe—
the traces were still there,
waiting for me.

And then—
the sight before me halted my steps.
My breath caught.
My heart began to pound for reasons I could not name.

When I looked down,
a small, unbelievable miracle unfolded at my feet—
quietly, yet unmistakably—
rising from this once-desolate ground.

The tiny seeds I had planted
had somehow taken root.
On this dry, harsh soil—
a place where I had once wanted to give up everything—
they had clawed their way into the earth
as though driven by a single, absolute reason:
to live.

What had once required careful angles of light
and a close, almost desperate inspection
were now unmistakably visible.
Still small,
but undeniably alive.

Their slender stems had grown firmer,
their once-translucent leaves now held a deeper, solid green,
glistening softly under the sunlight—
as though each leaf were waving a tiny flag,
quietly declaring, “I’m here.”

Some shoots lifted their heads upward,
while others crouched low,
pressing close to the earth.
But regardless of posture,
they all existed—
deliberately, stubbornly,
with a life force that was quiet yet resolute.

They were still fragile and small,
yet their mere presence changed the land.
Small green dots emerging across dead soil—
subtle but unmistakable traces of living
spreading through the barren landscape.

I stood there, unable to look away.
Those specks of green,
those tiny leaves and curved stems—
it felt as if each one whispered to me,
without sound:

“This is where you begin.”

Like small, silent stars.
Where despair once reigned,
a miniature universe was now blooming.

Slowly, carefully—
as if handling a fragile glass vessel—
I knelt beside the tiny lives.

The ground against my palms was cold and coarse.
Dry soil crept between my fingers,
and the uneven stones pressed into my knees.
Even that discomfort felt solemn in this moment.

With steady hands,
I reached toward the nearest sprout
and touched its fragile stem—
gently,
so gently it was barely a touch.

The sensation was unbelievably soft and warm.

That warmth—
that quiet pulse of life—
crawled from my fingertips up my arm,
through my chest,
and into the deepest part of my heart.

It was a feeling I had forgotten—
perhaps long before I came to this island.
Not fear, not pain, not loneliness,
but a pure, tender warmth.

The warmth of a living being.
The warmth of hope.

I touched each little sprout,
one by one,
holding my breath as though in prayer.

Their small scars, their bends,
the marks left by wind,
the angles of their roots—
everything about them felt like proof of survival.
Not pitiful, not fragile,
but worthy of respect.

Looking around,
I saw sharp stones scattered among the growing shoots,
broken branches tangled between them.
The soil was hard and dry,
and the fact that these lives had pushed through it
felt nothing short of miraculous.

I didn’t hesitate.
I began clearing stones,
gently but with resolve,
so the sprouts could breathe easier,
catch more sunlight,
stretch their roots farther.

Soil scraped my palms;
dirt lodged under my nails.
I didn’t care.
I lifted broken branches to remove their shadows
and opened small paths for the wind.
I pressed into hardened earth to loosen it,
sweeping the ground with my hands.

I didn’t know what any of this truly meant.
I couldn’t explain it logically;
I couldn’t justify it to anyone.

I simply wanted to protect them—
to make the world around them
a little easier to grow in.

The fact that these small lives
had grown in such harsh, forgotten soil
was proof that this place was not dead.
And that I, too, was alive with them.

They did not question me.
They simply existed,
and in their existence they said:

Live.
Do not abandon hope.
Begin again.

I tended the shoots,
removed stone after stone,
cleared dry branches—
and time quietly passed.

When I finally lifted my head,
the sun had dipped near the horizon,
and the island was slowly
but unmistakably bathed in red.

Warm light seeped into the edges of the sky,
filtered between the leaves,
and spread thinly over the rocks.
It felt like the world was taking a slow, deep breath.
I sat beside the sprouts again.

Silently.
Watching them—
their presence, their faint movements.

Each time the wind passed,
their slender stems trembled gently.
They looked fragile,
as if they might break with the slightest pressure,
yet something fierce lived in them.

When the sunlit leaves shivered,
I felt it—not as a plant’s reaction,
but as the language of being alive.

Such small lives,
on such unforgiving soil,
breathing steadily in their own place,
without protection,
without witness.

It was not pitiful.
It was awe-inspiring.

The world’s indifference,
the cruelty of time,
the harsh winds and scorching sun—
even after bearing all of it,
they had not broken.
They had grown.

This was more than resilience.
It was the will of every living thing—
the instinct to continue life
wherever it has taken root.

And suddenly—
I realized that I was no different from them.

I, too, survived—
on this remote island, in the depths of despair,
on the very ground where I once wanted to give up everything.

In a place unseen by anyone,
I cried alone, pulled myself back up,
and quietly put down roots.

The simple fact that I was still alive—
it remained in my chest as something solid,
something impossible to explain,
yet undeniably real.

As I watched over them—
a quiet but powerful impulse suddenly rose from deep within me.

This small space.
The place where my hope first sprouted,
the place where I first felt alive
on this dry and barren land.

I wanted to make this place safer, more whole.
So that the small sprouts would no longer be exposed
to harsh winds or sudden danger.
And so that I, too—
at least when standing here—
could finally breathe with ease.

I stood up.
I picked up the scattered stones and rocks around me,
gathering them one by one.
Small and large, rough and smooth—
I didn’t choose; I simply stacked them slowly.

I had tried this once before,
but this time, my heart was entirely different.

The simple act of lifting and placing stones
felt strangely meaningful.
Even the rough, cold texture against my fingertips
felt like a kind of ritual—
a heavy, quiet vow carried into my chest.

With each stone I placed,
the wall became more than a physical boundary;
it felt like the outline of a small world
I was building for myself.

It wasn’t tall,
but the wall clearly divided the space—
the harshness outside,
and the small sprouts within.

I gently tended the soil inside the wall.
The hard earth slowly loosened,
small pebbles pushed aside,
creating a narrow but unmistakable path.

That path was a passage for myself—
a way into the garden,
and a way out into the world again
after I had caught my breath.

When I finished stacking the wall
and smoothing the end of the path—
I knew without question
that this small space was no longer just “one corner of an island.”

It had become
a world shaped by my own hands.

The countless painful days,
the time spent enduring and surviving,
were soaked into the soil,
the rocks,
and the stems of the sprouts themselves.

This place—holding all of that—
was no longer made only of pain.
It had become the ground where hope first bloomed,
and the point from which I could begin again.

The hurt and fear within me still existed,
but they were no longer burdens that crushed me.

Instead, they became the deepest source
of my desire to protect this garden,
to care for these small lives,
and to shelter myself fully within this space.

And I realized—
every motion of stacking stones,
every moment spent shaping this small path—
had all been acts of caring for myself.

Even the barren ground inside me
could grow new life.
I could create boundaries.
I could carve a path of my own again.

And all of it—
at my pace,
in my way—
was fully possible.

Darkness began to fall slowly,
gently.

The island’s air carried the remnants of the day’s warmth,
blended with the quiet scent of evening.

I looked one last time
at the small lives I had planted and tended inside the stone wall.
The sun had not completely set,
but the light was fading.

Even as the brightness diminished,
each of them remained alive in their place.
In the darkness,
I could still faintly sense the outline of their stems,
the trembling silhouette of their leaves.
Even that faint movement
felt like a quiet, steady presence.

I took a slow breath.
Here, on this desolate island—
on this rocky, dry soil—
the lives I had planted, shaped, and tended
through the pain of each day
were growing this much.

And they spoke to me.

That after all this hardship,
after returning from the end of that dark cave—
I, too, would be able to begin again.

It wasn’t mere expectation.
Nor a vague hope for something that might bloom someday.

It was a certainty—
quiet,
but unmistakably alive inside me.

Like an ember,
glowing steadily and refusing to go out.
Or like a seed rooted deep in the earth,
silent but unshakeably strong.

I rose slowly.
This small garden—
this ground within the stone wall—
was no longer just soil.

It was my new beginning.
The place where my healing would start.
The foundation on which I would rebuild
what had once collapsed.

I looked back at it
and quietly promised myself
that I would return tomorrow—
and that together with these small lives,
I would grow,
slowly,
but surely.

I turned to leave.

Darkness had fully settled by then,
but my steps were light.

Because they were no longer the steps of someone running away.
I was returning—
to myself,
and to the life I could finally begin again.