Chapter 17

• The small, dilapidated cabin offered little in the way of comfort, but it was shelter. The rough-hewn wooden walls offered a fragile barrier against the elements, and the meager furnishings, salvaged from the wreckage of their past, were a testament to their resilience. The nights were cold, the silence broken only by the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls and the distant, mournful cries of seabirds. Sleep was elusive, haunted by the lingering fear of discovery, the phantom touch of Julian's cold hand, the echo of his cruel laughter. Even in their sanctuary, the past refused to be silenced.
• Days bled into weeks. The initial euphoria of escape had waned, replaced by a gnawing anxiety that clung to them like a persistent shadow. The island, once a symbol of freedom, now felt like a gilded cage, its beauty a deceptive façade masking their precarious situation. The constant threat of discovery cast a pall over their idyllic existence, a dark cloud on the horizon of their newfound love. They were fugitives, forever looking over their shoulders, the weight of their actions heavy on their hearts.
• Their days were filled with a strange mix of mundane tasks and stolen moments of intimacy. Rowan, ever the pragmatist, focused on securing their basic needs: finding fresh water, foraging for food, reinforcing the cabin against the elements. Cleo, still reeling from the trauma of her past, found solace in the simple act of tending a small garden, coaxing life from the parched earth, a tiny act of rebellion against the barrenness of her previous existence.