Chapter 2 — Wandering the Caldera

Sophie

The morning sunlight poured over the caldera cliffs like liquid gold, softening the stark contrast of the blue-domed rooftops against the jagged rock face. Sophie meandered along the narrow cobblestone path, her sketchbook tucked under one arm and a pencil poised in her hand. She had stopped mid-step several times, feeling the pull of the breathtaking view—a collage of sapphire blues rippling in endless patterns—but each time she failed to lift her pencil to the page. The act of drawing, once instinctive, had become foreign, a language she could no longer translate.

Her chest tightened as she stopped by a low stone wall. The sheer drop of the cliff met the glimmering expanse of sea below, a sight both awe-inspiring and humbling. The vastness of it all made her feel small, fragile. Unnoticed. The pencil hovered above the blank page, trembling as if it carried the weight of more than its own making.

“Just draw something,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the soft rustle of the sea breeze. The words felt hollow, like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. Sophie’s fingers tightened on the sketchbook, the edges of the leather cover pressing into her palm. Her gaze darted to a cluster of houses perched higher on the cliff, their whitewashed walls gleaming in the sun. Narrow staircases wound between them in stark geometric lines, and an old man led a donkey laden with firewood up one of the steep paths. Below, the faint, melodic laughter of children playing near a fountain reached her ears, cutting through the heavy silence in her mind.

A spray of magenta bougainvillea spilled from a nearby balcony, its vivid color startling against the pristine white backdrop. The scene was perfect—alive, vibrant, demanding to be captured. Yet, no matter how intensely she stared, willing her hand to translate it onto the page, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever she created would fall painfully short. Her pencil remained still, its tip suspended above the pristine paper like a diver hesitating at the edge of a cliff.

With a frustrated exhale, Sophie snapped the sketchbook shut, shoving the pencil haphazardly behind her ear. Her heart thudded, not with inspiration, but with the oppressive weight of failure. Maybe later. Maybe after coffee.

The winding path twisted toward the heart of the village, where life bustled with a gentle rhythm. The earthy scent of wild thyme mingled with the aroma of baking bread, and the faint clinking of glasses reached her ears. As she rounded a corner, a small café came into view, its patio shaded by grapevines that meandered across a wooden pergola. Tables with hand-painted tiles spilled into the square, each adorned with small jars of wildflowers. A stray cat lounged on the warm cobblestones, its tail flicking lazily as Sophie approached, dragging her feet slightly as if unsure of where to go.

“You look like you could use a proper breakfast.” The voice was warm, teasing yet kind, carrying with it an air of effortless confidence.

Sophie turned to see a woman standing at the café’s entrance, her curly black hair streaked with silver and her eyes full of mischief. She wore a flowing dress patterned in bold colors, and her chunky turquoise earrings jingled softly as she tilted her head toward Sophie. The woman waved her over before Sophie could even think to respond.

“Come, sit,” the woman said, gesturing to one of the tables. “The first coffee here is always the one that counts.”

Sophie hesitated, clutching her sketchbook tightly against her chest. There was something about the woman’s presence—so unrestrained and welcoming—it felt almost impossible to resist. “I… sure, okay,” Sophie said, slipping into one of the mismatched chairs.

“Good,” the woman replied, already disappearing into the café. She returned moments later with a small cup of dark, steaming liquid and a plate of golden pastries glistening with honey. “I’m Lila, by the way. And you’re not from around here,” she said as she placed the items down with a flourish.

“Sophie,” she answered, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. “And no, I just arrived yesterday.”

“Mm, thought so,” Lila said, sliding into the seat across from her. “You have that look about you. A tourist, but not the usual kind.”

Sophie raised a brow. “What kind is that?”

“The ones who come for sunsets and selfies.” Lila waved a hand dismissively before leaning forward, her sharp gaze flicking to the smudged edges of Sophie’s sketchbook poking out of her bag. “But you… you might be here for something more.”

Sophie swallowed, feeling a pang of unease. “I guess you could say I needed a change of scenery. To clear my head.”

Lila tilted her head, unimpressed. “Clearing your head, huh? And does that involve sketching?” She nodded toward the sketchbook, her tone playful but probing.

Sophie’s fingers instinctively pulled the book closer, shielding it as though it carried secrets she wasn’t ready to share. “Something like that,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lila leaned back with a knowing smile, as though she could see right through Sophie’s defenses. “The island has a way of stirring up things you thought you’d buried. Dreams, feelings, even the bits of yourself you’d rather forget.” Her voice softened, taking on a more reflective tone. “It’s overwhelming sometimes, but if you let it… it can be the start of something new.”

Sophie stared down at the coffee in her hands, her chest tightening. She wanted to believe that was true—but the weight of her artistic block, of the self-doubt that had followed her all the way from New York, felt like a chain she couldn’t break.

Lila reached out, placing a hand gently on Sophie’s shoulder. “Finish your coffee,” she said, her voice lightening again. “Then take a walk. There’s a path behind the café that leads to the cliffs. The view there… well, let’s just say it’s been known to break through even the most stubborn of blocks.”

Sophie nodded, grateful for the reprieve and the unexpected kindness. She lingered over the coffee and pastries, savoring their sweetness and warmth.

When the last crumb was gone, she followed Lila’s advice. The path behind the café curved upward through patches of wild herbs that released their scent with every step. The shrill hum of cicadas filled the air, blending with the rhythmic crash of waves far below. Sophie paused to admire a small shrine nestled into the rocks, its candles flickering faintly in the breeze. She wondered who had lit them and what prayers they carried.

The cliffs rose ahead, their rugged formations softened by the light of the late morning sun. At the edge, the land seemed to fall away into the sea, an endless expanse of blue and silver. Sophie pulled out her sketchbook again, her breath catching as she flipped to a fresh page.

This time, the pencil felt lighter in her hand. It hovered there for a long moment, but the blank page didn’t seem as hostile as it had before. It was still daunting, but there was something else, too—possibility.

She pressed the tip to the paper. Her strokes were tentative at first, mere whispers across the page. The curve of the cliff, jagged rocks breaking through the gentle slope. The sea, its surface alive with light and movement. She hesitated, then added a burst of bougainvillea, its magenta petals bringing the scene to life.

It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t even good—but it was something. And for the first time in what felt like forever, that was enough.

When Sophie finally lifted her gaze, she stared out across the horizon, where sky and sea blurred in endless shades of blue. Her lips curved into the faintest smile. Maybe Lila was right. Maybe this island really did have a way of stirring forgotten things.