They moved like a single body now, no longer scattered individuals but limbs of the same being. Each step up the slope brought them back into the rhythm of the world, but the forest that met them at the top of the cliff was not the one they remembered.
It had changed.
The trees were taller. Thicker. Their bark glowed faintly, and their roots had moved - shifted, curled into new patterns across the ground, as if the island itself was weaving something with its limbs. The air was thicker with scent, every breath heavy with blossom and moss and heat. The sun had dipped, but the sky shimmered with gold and rose and violet, casting everything in the light of dusk and dream.
They returned to camp in silence.
It was no longer camp. The platforms had grown - branches had curled up to support wider spaces. The treehouses had braided themselves together, the walls softened with moss and petals. It was a sanctuary now. A temple. A home the island had built for its chosen.
