By the fourth morning on the island, the villa no longer felt like a stage built for photographs. It felt alive. Real. Filled with voices that had nothing to do with cameras and everything to do with the rhythm of daily life. The ocean rolled softly against the cliff, the wind carried salt and warmth, and the laughter of the workers moved through the rooms like music.
Malia arrived early with flowers in her hair. She always looked like she had stepped out of the ocean with the sunrise still on her skin. When she saw me, her smile brightened, and she placed her hand over her heart.
“You look more relaxed today,” she said. “The island is working.”
I did not correct her. I let the thought settle over me like a warm cloth. Perhaps the island was working. Or maybe it was the kindness in her
