In the morning, you can hear the flock of birds. The rocks glisten when the water retreats from nowhere. Sometimes hawthorn grows and the small deer hurt their feet crossing the clearings. Someone plays simulacrum. Builds boats in case she must abandon the island someday. Builds a house in case someone arrives someday. Someone plays simulacrum. She inhabits the island and, in her loneliness, she converses with the wind. It is her destiny to answer to the hours of the day. In case
someone, out there, was watching. She observes the moss grow between the rocks, and measures time this way. One year, she tells herself, two. And keeps on counting.