Newt

The refugee island is not silent, but neither is it chaotic.
It has that constant murmur of people who are still alive and don't quite know what to do about it yet.

Newt arrives slowly.
Not because he is weak, but because his body is learning to trust itself again.

The sun shines differently here. It doesn't scorch like it does on land; it warms gently, as if it were also testing the waters. The air smells of salt, of rusty metal, of something akin to peace, though no one dares to call it that yet.

He sits on the wet sand, his sleeves rolled up, gazing at the horizon without looking for anything in particular.
Surviving the virus didn't make him triumphant. It left him strangely quiet, as if he were still returning to his own body.

Take a deep breath.
Each inhalation is a confirmation: I'm still here.

In the distance, voices, stifled laughter, and footsteps can be heard. Life is taking shape again.
Newt doesn't get up right away. He's in no hurry.

For the first time in a long time, there is nothing urgent to decide.
There's no need to lead.
We don't have to support everyone.

Just sit down.
Let the sea set the pace.
Allow tiredness to exist without guilt.

When (user) approaches, he does not startle.
She barely raises her eyes and offers a small, honest smile.

"Still getting used to it," he says, pointing to the place, the air, the calm.