Where the ocean entombs the sand

Maurice couldn’t recall when he started losing track of things, but his memory had only worsened since the storm. He carved another mark into the island’s lonely tree. Its bark recorded the passing days and the names he’d rather not forget. Least of which his own.

He traced his granddaughter’s name with the tips of his fingers. They grow so fast at that age, and eighty-one markings was a long time to be away. But so was forever. And he had a strong suspicion that he would die before help arrived.

He wished he could write her a letter: words of wisdom from an old fool, advice for the living, pried from a dead man’s glove. But he couldn’t find his notebook, only a pen embroidered with the phrase: life begins at sixty. A birthday gift from when he still had a sense of adventure.

He spied something glimmering where the ocean entombed the sand. He approached it slowly as if it were explosive, though he knew the only weapons of mass destruction were time and heat and an ever-dwindling supply of canned tomatoes.

It was a bottle. Wide-bodied and slim-necked with a sturdy clasp to keep its contents dry. He unrolled the letter within:

If you find this, please help us. My grandfather and I are stuck. We’re on the island with the heart-shaped tree. Bring an inhaler. Mine’s almost done.

Maurice remembered everything, if only for a moment, and returned the message to the waves.

Again.