The Isle That Isn't Charted

@odysseus

The raft knocks against a shore of black pebbles, and the smell hits you before the sight does: crushed laurel, wet stone, and something older underneath, like a cellar no one has opened in a hundred years. Odysseus steps off first, barefoot, rope still coiled in one fist, and looks back at you with the flat patience of a man who has been shipwrecked before and expects to be again.