The Island Without Time

Some places vanish from maps for a reason.
Not because they were lost—because someone wanted them erased.
Far out in the Black Sea, where sudden storms claw at the horizon and compasses spin as if seized by an unseen force, sailors whisper about an island that should not exist. No tide touches its pale cliffs. No birds circle its sky. And once you set foot there, time refuses to follow.
They call it the Island Without Time.
The world may have forgotten it, but old blood never does. Those who came before left their names sealed in salt and silence, waiting for the one voice capable of breaking the stillness.
Elena Petrova grew up believing her mother drowned. The coffin was closed. The sea stayed quiet.
Now visions drag her eastward, back to the water that swallowed her past. Across a sea that resists intrusion lies an island erased from every chart—an island where the dead are not done speaking.
And when its silence finally breaks, time will bleed.
Every name erased leaves an echo.
Every echo hungers for a voice.
Blood never forgets—it only waits.