Chapter Text
《 ◇◆◇ 》 PROLOGUE 《 ◇◆◇ 》
Life on the island seemed idyllic, offering a paradise-like lifestyle. But for the boys, it was pure luck that led them to that island.
Even with the calm waves, soft white sand, and tree-covered mountains, a lingering sadness and heaviness weighed on each of the former Gladers from all the trauma. None of them would ever be the same after their journey to Safe Haven.
Safe Haven was divided into four main areas, each with its own rhythm and purpose. The beach was the social heart of the refuge — where the large circle of stones surrounded the main bonfire, hosting gatherings, meals, and even the weekly celebrations. Further ahead was the work zone, which included the research tents, the community kitchen, the administrative space, and other essential functions to keep everything running. Climbing up the hills were the wooden cabins where the survivors lived — some isolated, others shared by families or groups of friends. And finally, there was the part of the island that remained unexplored. A zone surrounded by dense trees and mystery, stirring both curiosity and caution among the people of the refuge.
But the refuge was still under construction at the time they arrived. Tents had been placed near the beach as temporary sleeping quarters. A large bonfire at the center of the beach marked the spot where some volunteers cooked every night. Everyone had to pitch in to rebuild the hope that still lingered among the survivors. For it to truly be a peaceful refuge, it needed people with specific purposes.
Thomas was always willing to help however he could, but he preferred to patrol in the early mornings and at night with Minho. He also knew he needed time for himself. Ever since he read Newt's letter, he couldn't get the words of encouragement from his late friend out of his head. He kept the letter under his mattress, a safe place where he wouldn’t lose it. Some nights he read it over and over. Other times, he wished he didn’t have that paper at all—because the memory hurt more than anything.
On some nights, Brenda would see Thomas slipping out of the dorm and walking to the beach. He would sit on the sand and let his emotions take over.
Brenda had been an essential support for Thomas. She knew he was grieving—not only for Newt, but for Teresa as well. Even though it was a bittersweet feeling in her chest, Brenda understood. She gave him space when he needed it but was also there when he needed a hug.
Minho was dealing with his grief in a different way.
He liked running along the beach, letting the sun and the wind be the only things that mattered in his day. Sometimes he invited Thomas to run with him. Other times, he liked being alone.
He loved making jokes and making everyone laugh. The older women on the island adored him and even called him “little grandson.”
He was the one who loved attention the most out of the Glade boys—and he didn’t deny it. But ever since arriving at the refuge, he’d learned that being alone could be good too.
Frypan was the opposite.
He enjoyed connecting with new people at the refuge. With his friendly personality, people felt comfortable talking and opening up to him. He liked helping, listening, being the shoulder to cry on that many there needed.
His work back in the Glade had been mostly in the kitchen, with little interaction with the others, so he often felt lonely. But now, he cooked alongside many others around the bonfire. He gathered supplies from the ship’s storage and experimented with new recipes. While solitude was important for grief, being among people who shared the same feelings was just as valuable.
Jorge was the one enjoying the new life the most. He had left behind the fighting and chaos and chose to take care of the garden growing at the refuge. He enjoyed tending the plants and talking to people. With his technical construction knowledge, he created an irrigation system. He and Frypan enjoyed chatting about planting techniques and new ways to harvest crops.
Each one was dealing with grief in their own way. Everyone helped each other as much as they could. This way, each survivor managed to turn the page and think about the future ahead.
Everyone was doing well.
Everyone except Gally.
Gally withdrew from everyone. He didn’t want to talk about his emotions. He didn’t want anyone to see the sleepless nights, the tremors from anxiety when people mentioned the Glade, or the tears that stained his pillow every night when he thought of Chuck.
That name haunted his nightmares.
He heard his voice.
“You did this, Gally.”
“I could’ve been there with you guys.”
Gally twisted in bed, half-conscious, looking to the side and seeing Chuck’s body. Eyes open, afraid. His blood pooling on the ground.
The pain in his chest went beyond the wound from the spear. It was the pain of looking into the eyes of that hopeful, innocent kid—dead beside him.
The truth was, Gally knew it should’ve been him instead of Chuck. He shouldn’t be alive.
Since the day he arrived at Safe Haven, he mentally thanked whoever decided he wouldn’t share a cabin with anyone—no one to see his defeated face.
He went to bed dreading the nightmares and woke up feeling like he’d never slept.
When he wasn’t trapped in his thoughts, Gally was building cabins along the hillside. He always wanted to stay busy and distracted. He got up early and was always one of the first to start working.
Instead of eating breakfast with the others, he picked up his bowl of porridge from Frypan at the bonfire, glanced at the stone memorial on the beach, and went back to work.
When he built, he worked until he was soaked in sweat. His hands full of blisters, red. As if his subconscious forced him to exhaust himself every day, paying for his sins.
He was the last to stop working. Hugh, a survivor in his 40s who oversaw construction, often warned him he was overworking and told him to go to bed.
Since everyone worked hard to keep things in order, there was a weekly celebration of life at the refuge. Everyone sat around the bonfire, talked, sang, and some danced to the static music of an old radio brought from the boat.
During those parties, Gally would stay to the left side of the shore. He sat on the rocks, let the waves wash over his feet, and drank whatever alcoholic drink Vince had made that month.
Sometimes, he pulled out his notebook filled with construction sketches and drew the island, the beach, the trees, the animals. It was one of the few hobbies he still had. He enjoyed the small sense of peace it gave him before heading back to his cabin on the hilltop.
As sleep took over, he would climb the hill and lie down—returning to the world of nightmares until the next morning.
Frypan had noticed Gally no longer cracked jokes or smiled. He was just quiet and moody. He tried to talk to him, but Gally was stubborn and insisted he was fine, that he just needed time alone. He didn’t want forgiveness from his friends.
Especially not from Thomas—because he knew he didn’t deserve it.
And that’s how Gally went to sleep every night: with guilt and the fear that he would never be free from that feeling.