The Cursed Isle of Echoes

The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above me, droning on like an endless chant. I sat at my desk, staring at the sea of numbers glowing on my monitor, my hands frozen on the keyboard. Another spreadsheet, another meaningless report. My heart wasn't in it—not today, not for the past three years.

"Haruto, the quarterly figures need updating. We're presenting in two hours."

I barely registered my manager's voice. It was muffled, like I was underwater. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, feeling a familiar heaviness in my chest. The kind that had followed me since the accident.

I looked around the office—row after row of cubicles, co-workers glued to their screens, typing away like lifeless machines. I wondered how many of them felt as hollow as I did, or if I was the only ghost here.

"Haruto?" The voice again, sharper this time.

I turned to see my manager, Mr. Saito, standing beside my desk. He was in his late forties, thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, his forehead lined from years of frowning. His eyes narrowed, waiting for a response.

The words escaped before I could stop them. "I quit."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"You... what?"

"I quit," I repeated, my voice steadier this time.

His mouth opened, then closed, like a fish gasping for air. "You can't just—"

But I was already grabbing my coat, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I didn't wait for the formalities. No resignation letter, no polite farewells. I walked out.

Tokyo's winter air hit me hard as I stepped outside, sharp and cold, but strangely freeing. I wandered through the crowded streets, the flow of people moving around me like a current, as if I wasn't even there.

I ended up by the riverfront, my usual escape. The water reflected the gray sky above, rippling gently as a ferry passed in the distance. I sat on a worn wooden bench, the same one I'd visited countless times before, and pulled out my phone.

My thumb scrolled mindlessly through social media feeds, property listings, apartment ads—anything to distract me from the gnawing emptiness inside.

That's when I saw it.

Secluded Island Cottage — Oceanfront. Priced to sell. Inquire within.

It was absurdly cheap. The photo showed a small, weather-beaten house sitting alone on a cliffside, overlooking the sea. Mist curled around its edges, and wild grass swayed in the breeze. Something about it felt… still. Quiet. The kind of quiet I hadn't known in years.

I tapped the listing before I could second-guess myself.

Maybe it's what I need. A clean break.

But even as I thought it, my therapist's voice echoed in my mind.

"Haruto, isolation might worsen your symptoms," she had warned during our last session. Her office had been filled with soft light and the faint scent of lavender, the walls lined with calming paintings. But none of it had reached me.

"You've been carrying this grief alone for too long," she'd said gently, her hands folded on her lap. "Running away won't help you heal."

I had forced a smile, the kind that didn't reach my eyes. "I'm fine. Really."

But I wasn't.

Every corner of Tokyo reminded me of them—my parents. The accident had carved a hole inside me that nothing seemed to fill. Three years ago, a rainy night, a slippery curve on a highway, blinding headlights…

I clenched my fists as the memory surged. My mother's scarf had been found tangled in the wreckage, the same soft blue one she wore every winter. Her voice still echoed in my mind—calm, warm, the kind that could soothe any storm.

"Haruto, remember, when things feel overwhelming, close your eyes and breathe. The world will wait."

And my father, always the strong, steady one, though sometimes too stern, had his own way of showing care.

"Stand tall, son. No matter what comes, face it head-on."

But I hadn't faced anything head-on. I'd buried myself in work, numbed my mind with endless tasks, hoping the pain would dull. It hadn't.

I exhaled deeply, the cold air burning my lungs.

Three days later, I stood at the harbor, suitcase in hand, watching the ferry pull in. Tokyo's skyline loomed behind me—tall, imposing, and yet so small now, like it had already become part of the past.

The ferry was old, its paint chipped and faded, but it still looked sturdy. I boarded, settling onto a bench at the stern as the engines roared to life. The boat drifted away from the dock, the city shrinking into the gray mist.

I watched the waves as they churned against the sides of the ferry, white foam trailing behind us. The ocean stretched endlessly in all directions, vast and unknowable.

The island appeared on the horizon an hour later, a dark mass shrouded in fog. Cliffs rose sharply from the water, jagged and worn by time. A thin line of beach curled along its edge, and above it, barely visible, was the outline of the cottage.

It looked… different from the photo. Wilder. Forgotten.

I gripped the ferry's railing as we neared the dock, a strange mix of anticipation and unease swirling in my chest.

Was this freedom? Or was I just running away again?

I wasn't sure.

But as I stepped onto the island, my suitcase rolling behind me, I felt something shift—a faint ripple in the air, like a whisper carried on the wind.

I had left everything behind.

Or so I thought.