The late afternoon sun, a bruised orange disk sinking toward the horizon, did little to warm the cramped space of the small, battered boat.

Its name, crudely painted on the stern, had long since peeled away, leaving only faint, ghosted traces of letters that might once have spelled Hope.

Ronaldo, not a celebrated athlete here, but a man of heavy shoulders and a heavier heart, gripped the splintered tiller.

The wood felt rough and familiar against his palm, a small, constant weight, yet it was feather-light compared to the solemnity of the promise he carried.

He was a man built to endure, not for speed.

The taunts still echoed in the hollows of his memory—the cruel laughter from the dockside, the whispers about his size.

“Just collecting calories,” one had sneered.

He’d merely smiled, a tight, fixed thing, and returned to his work, hauling fishing nets that felt heavier with every passing day.

That day’s meager catch, now tucked into a canvas bag, represented more than dinner.

It was the last hurdle before the purchase.

His son, Lucas, lay curled up beneath a tattered wool blanket near the bow.

At seven, Lucas was a boy of sharp angles and wide, dreaming eyes, eyes that often tracked the perfect, soaring arc of a football kicked by the wealthier children on the mainland beach.

Ronaldo watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Lucas’s chest, a steady reassurance in the endless, restless rocking of the sea.

A sudden, sharp cry cut through the quiet.

“Papa, look!”

Lucas was pointing past the bow, his small hand stabbing the air.

“What is it, meu amor?” Ronaldo asked, turning his gaze toward the featureless expanse of water.

“No, Papa, over there! The island!”

Ronaldo followed the line of his son’s outstretched arm.

Faintly visible through the evening haze, a smudge of deep green broke the flat gray of the ocean—an island.

It wasn’t the mainland they were headed for, but a small, unnamed outcropping rarely visited.

Survival instincts, honed by years of hardship, immediately took over.

“Hold tight, son,” Ronaldo murmured, his deep voice suddenly taut.

The small engine coughed, then sputtered to life with a smoky shudder, its metallic heartbeat barely audible over the swell.

“These waves won’t stop us.

Your father never gives up.”

He steered the boat towards the dark silhouette, the rhythmic push and pull of the ocean demanding every ounce of his concentration.

An hour later, they scraped ashore onto a narrow strip of coarse, dark sand.

The air here was heavy with the scent of damp earth and unfamiliar blossoms.

The island seemed unnaturally quiet, the only sounds the lapping of the water and the tired rasp of Ronaldo’s own breath.

“Stay right here, meu menino,” Ronaldo instructed, pulling himself onto the beach.

He secured the rope around a thick, gnarled root that twisted out of the sand.

Lucas, already wide awake and energized by the strange new place, clutched at his father’s worn, patched trousers.

“Is there food, Papa?” Lucas asked, his voice a hopeful whisper.

“Maybe, son.

Maybe this island still has a little mercy left for us.

”

As Ronaldo scanned the dense, dark thicket of trees, a gleam of splintered wood and torn canvas caught his eye, half-hidden by a dune a few meters away.

A wreckage.

“Son,” he said, pointing, his heart giving a sudden, heavy thump against his ribs.

“Do you see that? A shipwreck.

Maybe our luck just changed.”

He led Lucas slowly toward the remains, the wreckage a chaotic heap of bleached wood, rusted metal, and seawater-logged possessions.

The scene was strange, almost eerie.

The atmosphere wasn’t one of a recent disaster; the wood was sun-baked, the metal heavily corroded.

It felt abandoned, forgotten.

“Oh my god, this place is weird,” Lucas whispered, his eyes wide as he took in a discarded, half-submerged figurehead whose wooden face was frozen in a silent, peeling scream.

“Stay right here, son.

I’ll check if there’s anything left inside.”

Ronaldo took a deep breath, the damp air cold in his lungs, and stepped carefully over a snapped mast into the dark, hollowed-out hull.

He was not looking for a fortune, only for a handful of preserved food or a clean jug of fresh water.

His hand brushed against something solid and heavy hidden beneath a clump of rotting fishing nets.

He tugged it free.

It was a small, ornately carved wooden chest, thick with seawater and grime, but sealed tight.

He dragged it out into the dying light of the sunset.

With a surge of strength he didn’t know he still possessed, he wedged a piece of broken wood into the seam and wrenched the lid open.

The chest was full.

Not with provisions, but with a glittering, muted pile of old coins and dull, tarnished metalwork.

“Gold,” Ronaldo breathed, the word a heavy, unbelievable sound on his tongue.

He looked at Lucas, whose face was illuminated by the sudden, dazzling sight.

“It’s real.

We found it, son.

We finally found it.”

He had come to the mainland for a football.

Now, everything felt impossibly, radically different.

The promise he had made to his son felt lighter, finally; the weight had shifted from his heart to the heavy, metal-lined chest.

Ronaldo pulled his boat farther up the sand, anchoring it against the rising tide.

The gold chest was safely tucked beneath a heavy tarp.

Now, a different kind of task demanded his attention: food.

They had landed on the south side of the island; the north, judging by the prevailing winds and the position of the sun, was probably where any fresh water would accumulate.

He found a path, barely a deer-track, leading into the thicket.

He moved slowly, deliberately, his substantial frame surprisingly quiet as he pushed past ferns and low-hanging vines.

He wasn’t afraid of the island’s animals; he was afraid of missing something important, something that would keep Lucas safe.

Suddenly, a loud, sharp snap echoed just to his left.

Ronaldo froze, every muscle tensing.

He wasn’t alone.

A man emerged from the shadows of a large, flowering bush—a secondary character in Ronaldo’s suddenly complicated world.

He was small, wiry, and dressed in clothing just as patched as Ronaldo’s, but with a restless, almost anxious energy that seemed to bounce off the stillness of the jungle.

“Well, well,” the man said, a wide, slightly manic grin splitting his face.

He held a large, empty canteen, and his eyes, though friendly, darted everywhere but directly at Ronaldo.

“Looks like I’m not the only lost soul.

The name’s Marco,” he added, extending a hand that was surprisingly clean and nimble.

Ronaldo hesitated for a long moment, the warmth of the gold a secret weight against the cold anxiety in his gut.

“Ronaldo,” he replied, accepting the handshake.

Marco laughed—a sharp, high sound like breaking glass.

“Ronaldo, huh? That’s a big name for a small boat, friend.

You look like you just wrestled a bear.

” He tapped the empty canteen.

“Any luck finding the spring? My partner, Silvia, swears it’s around here somewhere.

She gets quite.

.

.

emphatic when she’s thirsty.”

“I just arrived,” Ronaldo said, his tone reserved.

He was careful not to look back toward the beach.

“Right, right,” Marco said, nodding quickly.

“Well, perhaps we can pool our misfortunes.

Misery loves company, as they say.

Though, frankly, I prefer gold.

” He winked, his manner shifting to a conspiratorial, almost silly openness that bordered on the absurd.

Ronaldo simply stared, his large, kind eyes giving nothing away.

The weight of his promise—and the new, heavier weight of the gold—settled in his stomach.

He was no longer just a struggling man; he was a man with something to protect.

🧭 An Anxious Companion and a Thirsty Presence

Ronaldo’s instinct was to retreat, to take Lucas and the chest and melt back into the anonymity of the sea.

But the mainland was still too far, and Marco, with his darting eyes and quick, nervous grin, had successfully inserted himself into the immediate reality.

The mention of a partner, Silvia, also meant that two pairs of eyes were now on this desolate stretch of beach.

“Marco,” Ronaldo repeated, testing the name.

“You and Silvia, you were shipwrecked too?”

Marco’s grin widened, though his eyes never settled.

“Shipwrecked is such a dramatic word.

Let’s say we made an unscheduled, rapid disembarkation from a rather poorly maintained vessel.

The ship’s captain—a lovely fellow, truly, but possessed of the navigational skills of a particularly confused sea cucumber—thought this spot looked appealing.

Silvia, however, felt strongly that appealing was not the operative word.

” He paused, then abruptly lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper, leaning in close.

“She’s the brains, you see.

I’m just the… the delightful distraction.”

Marco gestured expansively at his own patched shirt and torn trousers.

“We’ve been here maybe two days.

Found a decent little alcove for shelter, but the water’s proving tricky.

Which is where my emphatic Silvia comes in.

She’s probably halfway to the center of the island by now, following a dried-up stream bed and muttering under her breath about my inherent uselessness in hydration matters.”

Ronaldo, accustomed to the straightforward honesty of the sea, found Marco’s fast, humorous patter exhausting.

He was looking for solid ground, and Marco was all quicksand.

“I have my son on the beach,” Ronaldo stated, keeping his voice flat and unemotional.

“I need to return.

If you need water, the stream usually runs from the high point—follow the deepest cuts in the foliage.

” He deliberately gave vague advice.

“A son! How wonderful! A young adventurer!” Marco chirped.

“Do lead the way, Ronaldo.

I’m dreadfully prone to walking in circles.

I once got lost walking from my cot to the latrine.

Silvia never lets me forget it.

It’s a miracle I found you.”

Ronaldo sighed internally, realizing that getting rid of Marco wouldn’t be simple.

He turned and began to walk back toward the beach, moving with the heavy, deliberate tread of a man who carries physical burdens daily.

Marco practically skipped alongside him, chattering like a startled bird.

“So, you’re a fisherman, then? I can tell by the hands.

Big, capable hands.

Me? I was briefly an apprentice cartographer, until I realized I possessed the singular ability to draw maps that led directly into large, thorny bushes.

My talents are more… dialogue-based.”

As they cleared the final curtain of thicket, the beach came into view.

Lucas was awake and sitting up, carefully arranging small stones into a pattern.

Standing over him, a few meters away, was Silvia.

She was the stark opposite of Marco.

Tall and lean, she wore a simple, dark-colored tunic that looked surprisingly neat.

Her movements were economical, almost predatory, and her expression was one of intense, controlled frustration.

She was not muttering; she was standing completely still, arms crossed, staring pointedly toward the dense trees from which they were emerging.

Upon seeing them, Silvia’s dark eyes narrowed instantly on Marco.

“Oh, thank the gods.

You didn’t get lost again,” she said, her voice a low, gravelly alto, utterly devoid of humor.

“Lost? My dear Silvia, I was merely conducting an advanced recon mission!” Marco declared, spreading his arms wide.

“And I found a friend! This is Ronaldo, a man of the sea and solid advice.

Ronaldo, this is Silvia.

She’s less buoyant than I am, but her feet are firmly on the ground, which is very useful on an island.”

Silvia didn’t offer a handshake.

She merely tilted her chin toward Ronaldo, her gaze assessing, calculating.

It lingered on Lucas, then on the distant, battered little boat.

Her eyes missed nothing.

“We need water, Marco,” she reiterated, ignoring the introductions.

“Did he find any, or is he also dialogue-based?”

“I advised him of the general direction of the spring,” Ronaldo interjected, his voice firming slightly.

“I have to see to my son.

” He took a step toward Lucas, putting physical distance between himself and the newcomers, his back to the wreckage hidden by the dune.

Silvia watched him move, her frustration momentarily replaced by a flicker of acute observation.

“You move like a man who has lifted something heavy, Ronaldo.

And yet, your boat is empty of a proper catch.

” She wasn’t accusing; she was simply stating a fact, a fact that made Ronaldo’s skin prickle.

Marco, sensing the tension, did what he did best: injecting the absurd.

He walked over to Lucas, crouched down, and tapped the boy gently on the nose.

“And who is this handsome young fellow, then? You look like you’re contemplating the complexities of basic geology.

Tell me, are you planning a seawall, or an elaborate sandcastle fortress?”

Lucas, startled but clearly intrigued by the fast-talking stranger, glanced up at his father for permission.

Ronaldo gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.

“A fortress,” Lucas confirmed quietly.

“For safety.”

“Ah, a practical boy! I like him, Ronaldo.

See, Silvia? Not all humans are fundamentally disappointing.

” Marco stood up, dusting his hands.

“All right, all right.

Water first, then fortress design.

Come on, Silvia.

Let’s follow Ronaldo’s superior, if slightly vague, directions.”

Silvia gave Marco one last look of severe disapproval, then fixed her gaze on Ronaldo.

“We will be back before sunset, Ronaldo.

Don’t go anywhere.

We should talk about how we all got here.”

It was not a request.

It was a thinly veiled order to stay put, and it confirmed Ronaldo’s fear: he was trapped between a promise fulfilled and a danger he hadn’t anticipated.

🤫 The Burden of the Chest

Silvia and Marco disappeared into the dense treeline, the sound of their footsteps quickly muffled by the thick vegetation.

The air immediately felt heavier, the silence amplifying the rhythmic lapping of the tide.

Ronaldo watched the spot where they vanished, his shoulders hunched not with fatigue, but with vigilance.

Silvia’s parting remark—”Don’t go anywhere”—had been a clear declaration of intent.

They saw him not as a fellow victim, but as a potential resource, or perhaps, a potential threat.

“Papa, who were they?” Lucas asked, his voice low and concerned.

He had stopped arranging his stones.

Ronaldo sat down beside him on the warm sand, his enormous frame settling carefully.

“Just travelers, son.

Lost, like us.

But we need to be quiet now.”

The urgent task was the gold.

It was less than twenty meters away, hidden beneath the tarp by the wrecked hull.

The problem wasn’t its location; it was the sheer bulk of the boat and the need to retrieve the heavy chest without attracting any attention from the island’s interior.

Marco was too flighty, too observant in his chaotic way; Silvia was too keenly analytical.

They would notice disturbed sand or a new indentation on the beach.

Ronaldo quietly rose.

“Stay here and keep watching the trees, Lucas.

If you hear anything, anything at all, just whisper ‘wave,’ all right?”

Lucas, sensing the gravity of the situation, nodded firmly, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement.

Ronaldo moved toward the wreckage with the deliberate, efficient movements of a man used to leveraging his strength.

He pushed the rotten hull of the shipwreck aside with a great heave, revealing the patched canvas bag and the small, heavy chest beneath.

The metal lock on the chest was corroded, but the wood itself was surprisingly intact.

He ran his calloused hand over the ornate carving.

This was a king’s ransom in the small, forgotten port where he lived—more than enough to buy the football, a house, and a life free from the cruel laughter of men like those on the dock.

The gold itself wasn’t shiny; it was dull, ancient, and heavy with the history of its loss.

He couldn’t carry it all the way to their small boat in one go without looking suspicious.

He needed a plausible reason for the boat to be moved or for the sand to be disturbed.

He looked around desperately.

He spotted a thick, twisted vine hanging from a nearby palm.

An idea, simple and risky, formed in his mind.

He would anchor the chest under the boat.

If Marco and Silvia returned before he was done, he could pretend he was just securing his craft more firmly against the high tide.

Ronaldo worked swiftly, using the thick vine to slowly drag the heavy chest beneath the hull of his own little boat, settling it deep into the cool, damp sand underneath.

He then piled up loose sand and seaweed, scattering Lucas’s carefully placed stones over the spot.

He was sweating profusely, the effort immense, but the gold was hidden.

He tossed the old tarp carelessly back over the wreckage.

He returned to Lucas, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

He noticed the canvas bag containing their meager fish catch was lying exposed near the tiller.

An oversight.

He snatched it up, stuffing it under the wool blanket where Lucas slept.

Suddenly, a crashing sound echoed from the jungle, closer than before.

It wasn’t the hurried footsteps of Marco; it was a more deliberate, heavy footfall, accompanied by the low, measured tones of Silvia’s voice.

They were returning, and quickly.

Ronaldo sat down abruptly next to Lucas, feigning a weary collapse.

“Quiet, son.

They’re back.”

They emerged from the trees not where they had entered, but twenty yards down the beach.

Silvia was walking ahead, holding a surprisingly large, clean-looking leaf folded into a funnel.

Marco trailed behind, looking dramatically dejected.

“Well, Ronaldo,” Silvia stated, walking directly up to him, her eyes scanning the subtle differences in the beach—the freshly disturbed sand near the water line, the rearrangement of the boat.

She missed nothing, yet had nothing concrete to point to.

“You were right about the direction.

There’s a decent spring about a fifteen-minute walk.

You are owed my thanks.”

It was the closest thing to an apology or praise she would ever utter.

Marco collapsed onto the sand a few feet away, letting out an exaggerated groan.

“We fought off a remarkably large, aggressive insect and discovered the source of eternal life—or at least, decent drinking water.

And what did we get for it? More damp sand and the prospect of fishing.

I tell you, Ronaldo, I miss the predictability of a mediocre desk job.

”

Silvia shot him a look that could curdle milk.

She turned her attention to Lucas, who was watching them with keen interest.

“You’re a clever boy,” Silvia said, her voice softening infinitesimally, though still businesslike.

“Tell me, were you awake when your father arrived?”

Ronaldo’s heart hammered a rhythm against his ribs.

Lucas looked up at his father, remembering the instructions.

He didn’t hesitate.

“I was asleep,” Lucas whispered.

“I was so tired.

We sailed a long time.”

Ronaldo gave his son a slow, barely perceptible wink.

The promise wasn’t just about a football; it was about the strength they found in each other.

Silvia’s gaze settled on Ronaldo.

“Well, we have shelter and water.

We need food, and we need a plan.

You’re a big man, Ronaldo.

You look like you can carry a lot.

Tomorrow, we need to try and signal the mainland.

Together.

” She made it sound like a command, not a discussion.

Ronaldo met her gaze steadily.

“Together,” he agreed, the word an anchor.

He knew she suspected something.

He knew Marco would never stop talking.

And he knew that the weight of the gold beneath his boat was now the biggest, most dangerous secret on the island.