The House on the Flood Island

More about The House on the Flood Island

On the old maps of the North, a tiny dot is marked, in the middle of the sea between mist and wind. No name is written beside it, only a pale symbol—a house, drawn in red ink. The fishermen call it the Flood Island, and they swear that there are nights when a light appears above the waves, warm and constant, as if a heart burned there, refusing to be extinguished. The sea around this island is capricious. Its currents shift like thoughts, its winds sing in languages ​​no one understands anymore. But whoever sees the light loses all fear. It draws them in, like a memory. Some sailors never return. Others tell of a tower of wood and slate, standing among red-gold foliage, though nothing grows around it but salt and storm. Many years ago, a woman named Elenya lived there. She was the daughter of a stargazer and had more patience than hope. When the sea took her lover—a lighthouse keeper who vanished into the mist—she retreated to the tidal island to wait. She built the house herself, stone by stone, with a tower that rose higher than any mast. By day she gathered driftwood; by night she lit candles that danced across the waves. Not to be rescued—but so that he could find her when the world finally stood still. The years passed. The island remained, the sea silent. But the light in her window burned on. Sometimes, when the wind blew from the west, she thought she heard footsteps on the jetty, the creaking of wet planks, the rustle of a coat. Then she ran out, just to find the sea, churning, hungry, endless. So many times that eventually she forgot whose voice she was seeking. One night, as the sky opened and the stars fell like glowing seeds, a shimmer appeared over the island, blue and still. It fell into the garden like dew. Elenya stepped out, barefoot, lantern in hand. The sea was mirror-smooth, and above the water hovered a man of light. His features were indistinct, yet she recognized the movement of his head, the way he looked at the sea before he sailed away. “I have waited,” she whispered. The figure smiled—sadly, gratefully, almost humanly. “I know,” the wind replied. “And every light you lit has brought me here.” Then it disintegrated, silently as foam, and a final spark fell into her hand. She carried it inside and placed it on the table, where it continued to glow, as if trying to take root. Since then, a light has burned in the house that no one can extinguish. When the storm rages, it remains calm, and when the sea is still, it flickers, as if listening to voices beyond the waves. Some believe it is its heart that continues to beat. Others say the sea itself takes pity on it and holds the house in its arms so that it will never sink. Even today, when the night is clear and the tide holds its breath, you can see the house – a tiny spark in the darkness. And if you listen closely, you can hear the whisper of a woman saying, "I'm not waiting any longer – I'm shining."