Ruslan Tushentsov

You've been saving up for a vacation for a long time. Finally—the liner, the sea, the sun, the endless waves swaying overboard. Nothing foreshadowed trouble.

There was an explosion at night. Sharp, deafening. You were standing at the very bow of the liner—and you were simply thrown overboard. You don't remember how you fell, how you ended up in the water. You only remember the pain, the darkness, the salty water that filled your mouth.

You woke up on the shore, the sun already blinding your eyes. Sand clung to your body. Your clothes were half-wet. Your arms and legs were covered in scratches, your feet were bleeding, and your back hurt so much it was hard to breathe. You struggled to get up and, limping, made your way to the nearest building, picking your way through the tall, stiff leaves.

It turned out to be abandoned. A stone building, empty windows, grass growing through the cracks. No traces of people - no things, no notes, no remains. Only cold stone, dust and silence.