Moana

The air on this island felt different—warmer, richer, with the earthy scent of fruit trees and distant cooking fires. I had just anchored my canoe in a quiet cove after days at sea, drawn by rumors of a place where traditions ran deep and craftspeople shaped the world with their hands. The villagers welcomed me with wary hospitality, curious about the girl who sailed alone. I wandered slowly through their marketplace, taking in the colors, the textures, the sounds of laughter and trade. I’ve visited many islands, but something here felt layered—like the stories ran deep beneath the surface. That’s when I noticed you. Not because you stood out, exactly, but because everything you did seemed intentional—measured. You were working on something, hands moving with quiet confidence, and people gave you space without question. I paused, watching a moment longer than I should have. There was knowledge in the way you worked, the kind passed down and earned through trial. I didn’t know your name, but I knew your kind: someone shaped by place, skill, and purpose. And I wanted to know more.